


Empire State of Murder

by nixajane



Series: The Dah-Ling Series [3]
Category: Psych
Genre: Banter, Case Fic, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-14
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-01 23:11:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 50,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/362316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nixajane/pseuds/nixajane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When an old case resurfaces, Lassiter heads off to New York alone to try and solve it before Shawn gets involved—but Shawn, being Shawn, is already smack dab in the middle of it. With secrets and lies on both sides, it's anyone's guess if they'll make it out of it with their lives, let alone their relationship, still intact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally started for the Psych Big Bang on Livejournal, but as usual I missed my deadline by more than a few…months. The story is still ongoing, but I definitely owe it to this challenge for getting me to write Psych again! 
> 
> Also thanks as always to forcryinoutloud, for all the beta help and for being such a patient sounding board while I work on this.

**1988**

"It isn't forever," Shawn said, as he packed his Knight Rider suitcase full of the essentials—namely, three G.I. Joes, a Mad Libs, and four packs of Red Vines. As an afterthought, he threw in a couple of shirts and underwear. 

Gus was sulking and didn't respond, instead he stared into Shawn's suitcase with narrowed eyes. "That's my Mad Libs, Shawn!" 

"It says 'Shawn's,' in permanent marker," Shawn said, pointing to where he had written his name across the front. "I think that means it's mine." 

"Fine, it's yours," Gus said. "Have fun playing by yourself." 

"I won't be by myself," Shawn said. "I plan to hold auditions on the plane for a new best friend, seeing as how you're doing such a lousy job. Anyway, Grandpa George and Grandma Sue will probably have lot of things planned. I'll probably hardly think of you at all." 

"I just—" Gus faltered, crossing his arms. "Who am I supposed to do stuff with while you're gone?" 

"I don't know, there's lots of people!" Shawn said. "What about Michael?" 

"Crazy Michael?" Gus asked incredulously. "I think he's plotting to kill me." 

"Don't be so self-centered," Shawn said. "You don't know it's you he's plotting to kill. It could be anyone."

"I don't want you to go," Gus said.

"It's three days," Shawn said. "And you could be coming with me if you hadn't vetoed Operation Hide Gus In My Suitcase." 

"I wouldn't even fit in that thing," Gus said. 

"Obviously I would have used a bigger one, if I had been given the opportunity to plan," Shawn said. "It's too late now." 

"Well, I hope you at least bring back something good this time," Gus said. "I don't know why you only asked for a signed photograph of Dwight Schultz last time you were there." 

"That was an investment," Shawn said. "It's going to be worth tons someday. And my grandfather is friends with the entire A-Team." 

"He is not," Gus said. 

"Okay, but he knows someone who knows someone who is," Shawn said. "And I can't miss out on opportunities like that." 

"All I ever get from my grandmother is pinched cheeks," Gus sulked. "I need to live vicariously." 

Shawn had learned at around age four that he could get pretty much anything that he wanted from his Grandma Sue and Grandpa George with some subtle conditioning. Last year when he'd visited he had worn knee pads and bike gloves—a helmet would have been pushing his luck, he wasn't six anymore. His grandmother had finally knelt in front of him and asked him why, and he had earnestly told her he was preparing for when he saved up enough to buy a bike. 

Sue and George had found this adorable and promptly went out and bought him a top of the line ten-speed. Shawn would feel guilty except that presents were what grandparents were for, and he had to compensate for Henry somehow. 

Shawn's eyes lit on the boat shoes his Grandmother had bought him the year before, as well as the Captain's hat that lay unworn beside it. Shawn grinned widely. "I've got it!" he said. "I'm getting us a boat." 

"They're not going to get you a boat, Shawn," Gus protested. "I was thinking more like a model of the Millennium Falcon." 

"Don't be ridiculous, you were right, I need to shoot higher," Shawn said. "Once I have my boat, you can call me El Capitan. I'll call you Gilligan." 

"Even if your grandparents did get you a boat, how would you get it here from New York?" Gus demanded. 

"I should think that would be obvious, Gus," Shawn said. "I'd sail back." 

"You don't know how to sail," Gus said. 

"That's because I don't have a boat!" Shawn said. "I haven't had any reason to learn. But I'm sure it can't be very hard." 

"I'm never going to see you again, am I?" Gus asked. 

Shawn bit his lip in though. "Maybe I should ask for a yacht, instead," he said. "One that comes with a crew." 

"Now you're talking," Gus said. "It's going to have a pool on deck, right?" 

"I can hardly be expected to swim in the ocean," Shawn agreed. "There's sharks in there." 

"Shawn!" Henry shouts, barging into the room. "Are you packed yet? You were supposed to be done yesterday." Henry stopped and peered into the suitcase, cataloguing the Red Vines, boat shoes, and other miscellanea. "Shawn, you're going to New York, not Candy Land." 

"If I was going to Candy Land, why would I be bringing my own candy?" Shawn demanded. "That doesn't even make any sense." 

Henry stormed to Shawn's closet, pulling out some suitable clothes to fold quickly and shove into the suitcase. "Say goodbye to Gus," he said. "We're already running late." 

"Bye, Gus," Shawn said. 

"Bye," Gus said sadly. "Don't ride the subway. And don't talk to strangers. And try not to get mugged." 

"New York isn't exactly like the movies, Gus," Henry assured him.

"I read the _New York Times_ ," Gus said. "I know what goes on over there." 

Henry raised his hands in surrender, before moving to zip up Shawn's suitcase. "My mistake," he said. "Please carry on. It'll save me having to do it later." 

Gus sighed. "Just be careful," he said. 

"Don't be such a worrying worriton," Shawn said. "I've been to New York lots of times." 

"You've been there twice," Henry interrupted. 

"Twice," Shawn agreed. "Which I think makes me an authority on it." 

"It doesn't," Henry said. 

"Don't you have things to be doing?" Shawn demanded. 

"Yeah, driving you and your mother to the airport," Henry said, grabbing the suitcase with one hand and Shawn with the other. "Don't worry, Gus. He's going to be fine." 

"If you need to talk to me, just build a coconut phone, Gilligan!" Shawn called, as his father started pulling him from the room.

"That was the professor, Shawn!" Gus shouted. "And I don't have the tools for that!"

"Oh for—you can call each other on real phones," Henry snapped. 

"Oh, right," Shawn said, looking disappointed. "I guess we could do that." 

"Next time, just go ahead and hide Gus in your suitcase so we don't have to go through this," Henry said. 

"You knew about that?" Shawn asked. 

"Kid, I know everything you're going to do," Henry said. 

Shawn poked him in the chest. "Did you know I was going to do that?" 

"We're leaving, now," Henry snapped, dragging him to the staircase.

"Beetlejuice," Shawn said. "Did you know I was going to say that?" 

Gus followed them down the stairs. "On second thought, I'm glad I'm not going to be on the flight." 

Henry glanced over at him as pushed Shawn out the door. "You and me both," he said. "You shouldn't be worrying so much about New York. I don't think Shawn's going to survive the drive to the airport." 

"Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!" Shawn called back. "I bet you didn't know I was going to say that!"

  
**2010**   


Lassiter was cuddled up with his gun tucked up under his chin, the barrel pointed towards the wall. Shawn had first found this disturbing, but somewhere along the line it had become kind of cute. Lassiter assured him he kept the safety on and that Shawn was in what he called his 'safety zone.' Those honored enough to be included in this zone would not, it seemed, be shot on sight. Shawn was still campaigning to have squirrels conscripted.

Shawn slipped from the bed, throwing on jeans and a t-shirt before heading to his kitchen. He sliced up a fresh pineapple and set about making a pineapple breakfast smoothie (patent pending) and some coffee for Lassiter when he woke up. Shawn's own sleeping habits, which were haphazard at best, fodder for a clinical study at worst, had been improving slowly as his relationship with Lassiter progressed. 

Lassiter was like his own personal teddy bear, if teddy bears came equipped with a Glock 17. The Lassiter teddy bear was doing a good job keeping nightmares mostly at bay, and even when he didn't, it was okay. The first time he had a full-blown nightmare while Lassiter was over Shawn realized he had been waiting for the sky to fall. It was always the death knell to a relationship that had progressed as far as someone staying the night—no one wanted to deal with someone that couldn't get through more than three hours sleep without having a panic attack, no matter how much he made them laugh when he was awake. 

Except Lassiter hadn't freaked out or quietly slipped away or recommended he seek professional help (for this, anyway) or done any of the things that others had done in the past. He’d just pulled Shawn back against his chest with a kiss to the back of his head, and told him to go back to sleep; in the morning he said nothing about it.

As Shawn moved to turn the blender on, he almost didn't hear the slight rustling of his mail slot opening. He jogged to the front door and pulled it open, before the mail could be dropped through. 

"Donald!" he said brightly. "It's been ages." 

"Oh, hi, Shawn," Donald said, eyeing the front hall with suspicion and stepping further back. "Is your boyfriend here?" 

Believing his behavior to be normal, Shawn had not thought to warn Lassiter that he had told his post man where to find his hide-a-key and then given him a standing invitation to enter at will. One morning while Donald was making himself and Shawn a cup of hot cocoa in his kitchen, Lassiter had cornered him with his gun, thrown him into the wall, and proceeded to search him thoroughly. Shawn had arrived just in time to keep him from putting the cuffs on. 

Donald never made Shawn hot cocoa anymore, but Shawn figured that was the sort of sacrifice one had to make to maintain a grown up relationship. 

"He's asleep," Shawn assured him. "I just wanted to apologize, again." 

Donald shrugged, relaxing slightly, and handed over the mail. "I'm used to getting attacked by guard dogs," he said. "So this was just a new variation on an old theme." 

Shawn frowned down at a postcard he had received. "Well, I've told him not do to it again," he assured him. "You've been added to the safety zone." 

"Good to know," Donald said. "All the same I think I'll be staying this side of the mail slot." 

"Understood," Shawn said, turning and closing the door with one foot as Donald headed off for his next stop. Shawn flipped through his mail, tossing bills and advertisements on the floor behind him as he went, until all that was left was a postcard. He laid it on the counter, before leaning down to get a closer look.

>   
> Shawn,  
> 

>   
> Grey L. Denfre is doing quite unwell, and I regret to report that we were unable to successfully attend our planned meeting of old friends. Old enemies are watching, so watch your back.   
> 

>   
> P.S. The view from Everest is so-so.   
> 

>   
> Rily Criner  
> 8 9 3 2 7   
> 

Shawn had received three postcards from Rily Criner in the last year, each more cryptic than the last. Cyril Riner was far too clever to leave anything that could be traced back to him, though he hadn't shied away from the fact that when he had disappeared he had gone to Nepal. But then there had been little point to since Shawn had already guessed it.

This was the most cryptic message yet, though Shawn caught a few of the references right away. Grey L. Denfre obviously referred to Cyril's mysterious partner in crime, Fred Greenly (a.k.a Glen Reed-Fry and Ed of Ferry Glen). Cyril had borrowed that particular trick for his own moniker Rily Criner, though his was obvious enough that Shawn had to hide his postcards away from prying Lassiter eyes. 

The numbers inscribed along the bottom and the reference to a planned meeting that had never been planned were less obvious, as was the fact that this postcard, unlike the previous two, was not a view of Everest at all. It was New York City.

"Who was at the door?" Lassiter asked as he walked into the kitchen, rubbing at his eyes. 

Shawn had always pegged Lassiter as an early riser, but the man had to sleep with two alarms to ensure he pushed himself out of bed on time. Apparently he was punctual with technological help, not by nature. Shawn turned so his back was to the door, folded the postcard and stuck it down the back of his waistband. "Just Donald," he said, smiling up at him. 

Lassiter's eyes narrowed. "I hope he didn't invite himself in this time," he said. 

"I told you before, Lassie, he had my permission to be here," Shawn assured him. 

"I’m getting rid of your hide-a-key," Lassiter said. "God only knows how many more strangers you've told about it, and even if you haven't, it couldn't be more obvious. You have a giant plastic pineapple sitting on the porch, for crying out loud." 

"I think it looks very lifelike," Shawn said. 

"It's got to go," Lassiter said. "You've made a lot of enemies, Shawn. You don't have to make it easy for them." 

"I don't make enemies, I make friends," Shawn assured him. 

"Uh huh," Lassiter said. "And occasionally some of your friends want to kill you." 

"Nobody's perfect," Shawn said. 

"I’m getting rid of it," Lassiter said again. "Or—"

"Or what?" Shawn said.

"Nothing," Lassiter snapped, reaching for the coffee pot and pouring it into a mug that stated proudly 'the psychic is in.' "Never mind." 

"I know when you've got something on your mind," Shawn protested. "I'm psychic, remember?" 

"No you're not," Lassiter said. "And it's nothing. Only, I was thinking you must spend a lot on this place, right? And it's not very big or in the best location, and I worry. That's all." 

"It's a wonderful location," Shawn said. "Have you seen my view?" 

"Yeah, but do you know the kind of scumbags that hang around the beach?" Lassiter asked. 

"Yes, actually," Shawn said. "Scumbag Sal, for instance. Lovely man; not at all like his name would imply." 

"I'm serious here," Lassiter said. 

"So am I," Shawn said. "People really call him Scumbag Sal, but he's been trying to be less of a scumbag, and I think he's been doing really well. He knows about the hide-a-key, too, by the way." 

"I'm trying to ask you to move in with me, Spencer," Lassiter snapped. 

Shawn let out a deep breath. "Yeah, I know," he said. "And I really wish you wouldn't." 

"Right," Lassiter said, pushing away from the counter and heading back toward the bedroom. "I've got to get to work." 

"Lassie," Shawn called, following him. "It's not that I don't want to. It's not, it's just—"

"It's okay, I get it," Lassiter said. "It's too soon." 

"Yeah, I think it is," Shawn said. "But not for me, for you. I don't think you're ready to handle living with me." 

"I know what you're like," Lassiter said. "I knew what I was getting into when we started this." 

"Yeah, but I don't think you're thinking it through," he said. "I'm the kind of guy that leaves a key in the pineapple on the porch, knows everyone that lives in a thirty mile radius and leaves his clothes on the bathroom floor. And you're the kind of guy that has a state of the art security system, booby traps set up in the entryway, does background checks on the neighbors and has some kind of weird obsession with cleaning that's just—" 

"I can handle you," Lassiter insisted. 

"I don't want to be handled," Shawn said quietly. 

"Shawn," Lassiter started, breaking off as his cell-phone started buzzing along the nightstand. He grabbed it and turned away. "Lassiter," he snapped. "Yeah. Okay. Got it." 

"Is it a case?" Shawn asked, his tone falsely bright. 

Lassiter reached for yesterday's clothes, getting dressed without looking up. "No," he said. "Chief Vick just needs me to come in early to go over some paperwork." 

"You're going dressed like that?" Shawn asked. Lassiter was hardly ever wrinkled. "You haven't showered." 

"I don't have time," he said, pocketing his phone before running a hand through his hair. "We'll talk more later, okay?" 

"Yeah," Shawn agreed. "You want to meet for lunch?" 

"Not today, I'll probably have lunch at the station," Lassiter said. "I'll call you later." 

Shawn dropped down on his bed as Lassiter rushed from the bedroom. He glanced at the stuffed panda sitting in the chair across the room. "Well, Eugene, that could have gone better," he said. 

Eugene stared back with his small plastic eyes. Shawn chose to take his silence as agreement.

* * * * *

Lassiter ignored the catcalls and wolf whistles as he walked towards his desk. It was the usual response to someone entering the office in yesterday's clothes, exempting officers assigned to stakeouts. It had never happened to Lassiter before, but he was strangely unbothered.

He had other things on his mind. 

"Rough night?" Juliet asked sympathetically, holding out a coffee. 

It was from the office coffee pot, which meant it had the general consistency of tar, but it was the thought that counted. Lassiter could feel himself softening already. "Thanks," he said, as he took it. "And the night was fine. It's the morning that's killing me." 

"Trouble with Shawn?" Juliet asked. 

"Is there ever one of those without the other?" Lassiter asked. 

"Valid point," Juliet said wryly. "But I'm here, you know, if you need to talk." 

Lassiter looked up at her. He had never had the best relationships with his partners in the past, but O'Hara was a special case. If he was ever going to open up, it would probably be to her. Just not today. "The Chief needs to see me," he said, setting the coffee aside. "Some other time, huh?" 

"Yeah," Juliet said brightly. "Sure. Any time." 

Her cheer was obviously false, and Lassiter felt like he'd kicked a puppy. Shawn gave him that same expression too, had done so just this morning, when he was trying to distract Lassiter from how anxious he really was—Shawn was always doing that, trying to put on a good show. He wished they'd both just say what they really meant. He wasn't good at reading signals, at least not in any context outside of interrogation. 

Chief Vick looked up as Lassiter entered the office. "Shut the door, Carlton," she said tiredly. If she noticed that Lassiter was wearing the same clothes he was wearing the day before, she made no move to comment on it.

"What's going on?" Lassiter demanded. "You didn't say much on the phone." 

"You were with Spencer, I'm guessing?" Vick said. "And I think this is something we want to keep him out of." 

Lassiter sat down across from her. "That's never very easy to do," he said. "I try it pretty much every case." 

"Try harder this time," Vick snapped, tossing a file across the desk. 

Lassiter flipped it open and raised an eyebrow. "Cyril Riner?" he said. "I thought he was off the grid?" 

"Well he's back in the game," Vick said. "The FBI called us yesterday to get some background on him. Apparently they've had a robbery." 

"The FBI?" Lassiter repeated incredulously. "That's hardly Cryil Riner's usual fare. He steals diamonds." 

"Yes he does," Vick agreed. "And two days ago someone stole a blue diamond from an FBI evidence locker. The very same diamond that Shawn Spencer recovered during the Dah-Ling case." 

Lassiter pressed his eyes shut for a moment, getting a bad feeling. "What were the FBI doing with it?" he asked. 

"Organized Crime have reopened their case against Max Diaz," Vick said. "Apparently being in prison hasn't slowed him down much, and chances are good he's going to be out on his next appeal. His business is running as usual, and they want to know how. They've requested everything we have on the case. Since the diamonds were originally stolen from Diaz, they also requested everything we had on the subsequent case with Riner." 

"Why wasn't I told?" Lassiter demanded. 

"Because it wasn't any of your concern," Vick said coolly. "But now with Diaz on the verge of being released and Riner back on the grid, it is. No one knows Riner better than you. They want your help." 

Lassiter shook his head. "There's one person that knows him better than me," he said reluctantly. 

"I don't want Spencer anywhere near this case," Vick said. "Last time he got near Cyril Riner we almost lost him. Henry Spencer still has a lot of friends in high places and he made it very clear to me when Shawn Spencer was taken hostage by Riner that I'd better not let something like that happen again." 

"As much as I hate to admit it, Shawn was right about Riner," Lassiter said. "He's not a murderer." 

"Then explain this," Vick said, and slid a photo across the desk. "The victim was shot through the back of the head. Forensic pathology shows he was placed on his knees first. It was an execution." 

"You think Riner did this?" Lassiter asked. 

"The FBI certainly does," Vick said. "They think Riner and Greenly used him in the heist and then got rid of him so they wouldn't have to share their cut. Their evidence is pretty convincing. There's no ID on the victim yet, but they have surveillance of the three together." 

"They'd been watching Riner?" Lassiter said. "Why didn't they pick him up?" 

"For what?" Vick asked. "He was cleared of the murder of Avery Daily, and we have no evidence that he or Greenly had anything to do with the diamond bracelet that went missing from our evidence locker last year. We can't even prove conclusively that Fred Greenly is Glen Reed-Fry. If they picked him up, a good lawyer would have had him out again in ten minutes flat. They wanted to catch him red-handed." 

"It doesn't sound like it went to plan," he said. 

"No, and that's where you come in," Vick said. "Riner and Greenly have got to be running scared. They can't do a thing with those diamonds, no fence would touch them. The FBI want to fly you to New York so you can find him."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," Lassiter said reluctantly. "If you don't want Shawn involved, it's probably best I'm not either. If I disappear to New York, he's going to figure it out. You know he will." 

"Say you're going to a police conference," Vick said dismissively. 

"It's a little more complicated than that," Lassiter said. 

Vick crossed her arms and stared across at him. "If you're referring to your relationship with Mr. Spencer, it doesn't change anything," she said. "You're still going to be on the first plane to New York, because that's where you're needed. I know you, Lassiter, and you won't forgive yourself if Riner hurts someone else and you don't even try to stop him. You'd be doing it as much for Spencer as anyone. I wouldn't put it past Riner to drag him into this mess himself. He's done it before." 

Lassiter glared across at her. He hadn't had much respect for Vick when she first started this job, but he learned very quickly just how effective she was. She always knew exactly what to say to get people to do what she wanted, and she never pulled her punches. He respected her methods now, but he still didn't like it when they were directed at him.

"I'll go pack," Lassiter said.

* * * * *

Gus had put up with a lot since Shawn had started dating Lassiter, not the least of which was having to entertain the thought of Shawn and Lassiter together. Lassiter had also single-handedly ruined game night. He was competitive and had a mean streak, and killed Gus three times the previous night in Soul Caliber, laughing manically the whole time. Shawn, deluded as he was these days, had believed this behavior to be cute.

Gus was glad at least when he got to watch Shawn utterly destroy Lassiter in the next round, but it was a small consolation. Lassiter ruined everything. 

At least their working relationship hadn't changed. After their disastrous attempt at working together on the murder of Harvey Graves, Shawn and Lassiter had decided to revert back to the status quo when it came to solving cases. Lassiter would play by the book, and Shawn and Gus would swoop in to show him up. It was Gus's favorite part of a case. 

He did have to admit it was nice having some time to himself again, with Lassiter keeping Shawn occupied most of his nights off. So Gus dealt with it. He carried on. But this time, Shawn had gone too far. 

"Shawn!" Gus shouted, banging on the door. There was no response, just as there had been no response to the last three phone calls. Gus angrily unscrewed the pineapple and then let himself in with the hide-a-key, covering his eyes as he made his way through the entry way. "If you're not decent, I'm going to scream!" 

"Please don't," he heard Shawn reply distractedly. "The last time you screamed I think you burst one of my eardrums." 

Gus carefully uncovered his eyes, relieved to see Shawn was fully dressed and alone, staring at his refrigerator with strange intensity. "Why aren't you answering your phone?" Gus demanded. 

"Oh, that was you?" Shawn said, glancing over at him. "Sorry. I thought it was Lassiter. Remind me to adjust his ringtone." 

"You're not picking up for Lassiter?" Gus asked, trying not to sound pleased. 

"I think we're in a serious fight again," Shawn said. "It's hard to tell sometimes, because we fight pretty much all the time. I don't always know if they're serious or not."

"Oh," Gus said, frowning. "Where is he now?" 

"He went to work," Shawn said. 

"In the middle of a fight?" Gus demanded. "You'd never let me go to work angry." 

"Well, no, but I can't keep Lassie from work," Shawn said. "He saves lives, Gus!" 

"So do I!" Gus said. "My work is very important. Do you know how many hospitals I supply?" 

"I'm sure it's a very large number, but I wouldn't go bragging about it," Shawn said. "You're like a glorified pusher." 

"Aht!" Gus squeaked, eyes going squinty. 

"I don't mean that like a bad thing," Shawn said at once. "Some of my best friends are pushers." 

"You don't know any pushers, Shawn," Gus snapped. "And I am a very respectable businessman. My work is extremely important. I'd appreciate it if you would show me a bit more respect, and stop wasting my precious time." 

Shawn frowned. "Hey, I'm sorry, buddy," he said. "What was it that you needed?" 

Gus was still bristling, fixing his coat, and turned his head away from Shawn. "Weir goi-en a tch he explodes gigtesca de romance athon oday," he muttered. 

Shawn watched him carefully. "Sorry, I didn't quite catch that, did you just say, 'we were going to watch the _Explosion Giagantesca de Romance_ marathon today?'" 

"You know I did, Shawn," Gus snapped. "We planned this months ago. I made empanadas." 

"I apologize, Gus, you're right, that's obviously of the utmost importance," Shawn said. "And here I was, wasting time with a case." 

"We haven't got a case," Gus said. 

"We do, actually," Shawn said. "It's just that I don't know what it is yet." 

"You have a case, but you don't know what it is?" Gus said. "That doesn't make any sense." 

"I know, right? I'm glad we're on the same page with this," Shawn said. 

"We're not even in the same book," Gus said. "Who hired us?" 

"Rily Criner, kind of," Shawn said. "But we're not getting paid or anything." 

"Of course not," Gus said, stepping closer despite himself, his eyes drifting towards the fridge. 

Shawn had arranged three postcards on the fridge, after clearing it of all pictures of Shawn, Gus, Lassiter and/or Val Kilmer. He'd connected sections of each postcard with red permanent marker, written along the surface of his fridge. 

"You know that's not a whiteboard, right?" Gus asked. "That's not going to wash off. You can forget your deposit." 

"Way to focus in on the heart of the matter," Shawn said. "Don't you see what this is?" 

"It's a bunch of cryptic postcards, probably from one of your old girlfriends," Gus said. "Your old girlfriends always spelled their name weird. Rily without an e, what is that? At least Lassiter spells his name like a normal person, though I have to tell you I think it's weird you won't call him by his first name." 

"First names are so impersonal," Shawn said. "I don't call you by your first name either." 

"You call your dad Henry half the time," Gus said. 

"That only supports my argument," Shawn said. "But you're missing the point. Rily isn't an old girlfriend, or even a girl. It's Cyril Riner." 

"Cyril Riner, the master criminal jewel thief that kidnapped you last year and threw you out of a car and almost got you killed?" Gus demanded. 

"No, of course not, Gus, I mean the other Cyril Riner that lives beneath the bridge and spends his days making balloon animals for orphans," Shawn said. 

"Oh no, this is not happening, you can forget it right now," Gus said firmly. "We are not taking another case from Cyril Riner. You don't think clearly about this guy. You're like some sort of groupie."

"Why do you say that like there's something wrong with being a groupie?" Shawn said. "You're the one who followed Prince through his entire Newpower Soul Tour." 

"I was an intern, it was extra credit for a business class," Gus protested. 

"I've taken that into consideration, but have decided it's not a mitigating defense," Shawn said. "Maybe if you told people you were doing it for community service." 

"It doesn't matter, we're done with Cyril Riner, the case is closed, finished, done with, over," Gus said. "He's long gone, and while I find the fact that he's been sending you postcards highly disturbing, I'm choosing to ignore it; because if I think about it too much I think I might freak out a little." 

"I proved him innocent! Cyril is harmless," Shawn said. "Well, okay, probably not harmless, he is an extremely competent criminal who has both stolen near millions and escaped from a high-security prison. But that aside, he's really a great guy! We had tons of fun on our road trip." 

"It wasn't a road trip, you were his hostage," Gus said. 

"You say potato, I say French fry," Shawn said. 

"Whatever, Shawn, he's not even asking for help," Gus snapped, looking over the postcards. The first one was simple, it just said:

>   
> Shawn,  
> 

>   
> Wish you were here. Enjoy the Red Bull.   
> 

>   
> Rily Criner  
> 

"On top of everything, he's an enabler," Gus snapped. "I've been trying really hard to keep you Red Bull free, and here he's taunting you."

"I'm still waiting for my clean for a year token," Shawn interjected petulantly. 

Gus ignored him, keeping his attention on the fridge. Inexplicably, Shawn had connected the 'Red Bull' sentence to his name in the next postcard:

>   
> Shawn,  
> 

>   
> It's a good thing you didn't keep that rock. It's got a bounty on it for more than it's worth. Send H and K to Lassiter for me.  
> 

>   
> Rily Criner  
> 

"I find that disturbing on a number of levels," Gus said stiffly, following the line Shawn had drawn from Lassiter's name to the line 'old friends' in the next postcard. "I'm going to erase that from my brain now. Going. Going. Gone."

"You have to read between the lines," Shawn said, pointing to the last line on the second post card. "Can't you see that's where things started to go wrong? It's a warning, and the fact that he used Lassiter's name? He's telling me I might have to go to the police." 

"I don't think that's what he's saying, Shawn," Gus said. "H and K means Hugs and Kisses." 

"Then how do you explain this newest one?" Shawn demanded. "'Old enemies are watching, so watch your back.'"

"Okay, so it's a warning," Gus said. "What it isn’t is someone hiring us for a case." 

"What about the numbers? 89327? Do you know what they might be?" Shawn asked. 

"It could be a short code," Gus said, drawn in despite himself.

"Yes, I'm fairly certain it is a code, and also short," Shawn said. "But I was looking for something a little more helpful." 

"I mean a cell phone short code, Shawn, as they're known in the telecommunication industry. It's typically used in conjunction with the Short Message Service." 

"And that would be what, for those of us not in the telecommunication industry?" Shawn asked. 

"Texting, Shawn," Gus said. "Have you tried sending a text to the number?" 

"Hold on," Shawn said, pulling out his phone and quickly texting 'hello' to the number. He got a response almost immediately. "Huh." 

"What? What is it?" Gus demanded. "Is it a clue?" 

"No, but apparently I was the hundredth one to text that number, and I just won a contest for an all-expense paid dinner for two at Miro for tonight at seven. I just have to text back my name." Shawn said, sending the text. "Miro. It sounds like the name of a Disney movie. How good can it be?" 

"You have to make reservations like a year in advance," Gus said, grabbing the phone from Shawn in disbelief. "How does this stuff keep happening to you? Do you know how long I've wanted to go there?" 

"Well, I'd take you, but that would probably be hard to explain to Lassiter," Shawn said. "He's already mad at me, just because I don't think we should move in together." 

"Woah, hold on, who said anything about you and Lassiter moving in together?" Gus asked. "You can't move in with him. If you move in with him, he'll be there all the time. It'll be Lassiter 24/7. I can't handle that, Shawn. He's driving me crazy." 

"Lassiter is tons of fun to be around," Shawn protested. 

"You only think that because you have some kind of personality disorder," Gus said kindly. "Normal people can only handle so much of that man before they want to kill him, or themselves, or both." 

"He isn't asking to move in with you, Gus!" Shawn said. "This is about me and Lassiter." 

"Right," Gus said. "It's about you and Lassiter. And me." 

"No, Gus, it's kind of just about me and Lassiter," Shawn said. 

"I've put a lot of time of effort into you, Shawn," Gus snapped. "I think I deserve some say in what you do with your life." 

"I can't do this with you right now," Shawn said. "Give me your keys." 

"Why?" Gus asked suspiciously. 

"Because, I'm going to take you somewhere nice," Shawn said. "You're obviously feeling neglected." 

"We're missing our _Explosion Giagantesca de Romance_ marathon! What I want to do is sit down and relax and watch it," Gus said. 

"Gus, do you want to sit on the couch watching terrible actors pretend to live their lives, or do you want to get out there and live your life?" Shawn demanded. 

Gus stood a little straighter. "I want to live my life," he decided.

"That's the spirit!" Shawn said, grabbing the keys. "You're not going to regret this."

* * * * *

"I'm regretting it, Shawn," Gus said stiffly.

"Are you trying to tell me there's no one in _Explosion Giagantesca de Romance_ in prison right now?" Shawn asked. "We're living the dream, buddy, come on, get out of the car." 

"Francesco is in prison, but it's just a misunderstanding, and he's going to make bail," Gus said. "That doesn't explain what we're doing here."

"We're going to see an old enemy," Shawn said. "Cyril didn't give me much to work with, but I've got to start somewhere. Since James is dead, that leaves Ava." 

"Ava Dah-Ling?" Gus asked, quiet and level. "I know you don't mean the woman that tried to kill you." 

"Gus, you really need to get over this," Shawn said. "A lot of people have tried to kill me; we're bound to run into some of them again. I saw Byrd Tatums at the supermarket just last week. He was buying three bags of peanuts, which I thought was weird."

"This girl is crazy, Shawn," Gus protested. 

"She might know something," Shawn said. "I'm not looking forward to this any more than you. Honestly, I find Ava more than a little scary, and I don't like the way she mocks my gift." 

"You aren't really psychic," Gus said. "You don't have a gift." 

"Yes, but she can't possibly know that for sure," Shawn said. "People always mock what they don't understand. Now get out of the car." 

Gus reluctantly got out of the car, attempting to make it appear like his idea. "Fine," he said. "We're here, so I'll come, but only because you're obviously depressed about how your relationship with Lassiter is falling apart." 

"It isn't falling apart," Shawn said. "And definitely don't say that in front of Ava! That sly minx would just love to get her hands on my man." 

"You sound like someone on _The Hills_ ," Gus said. 

"I don't know what that means, but I choose to take it as a compliment," Shawn said. 

"It wasn't one," Gus said, reluctantly following Shawn to the gate. 

Shawn took the lead, and smiled up at the guard. The woman appeared to be at least six foot four, but was probably only five foot eleven. Her hair was tied back in a bun, and her uniform straining against her bulk. "This way," she said, opening the gate to let them in. "Straight down to the visitors building. Don't get too close to the fence." 

Shawn and Gus nodded and warily started down along the fence. The inmates were in the yard, and a few were leaning up against the fence to whistle and call to them. "Dude, did you see that guard?" Shawn asked. "I think it was Chyna." 

"It wasn't Chyna," Gus said, reaching out to discreetly hold the back of Shawn's shirt, attempting to hide himself from view. 

"Come on, baby, don't be shy," one of the prisoners called to him. 

"Hey, isn't that your ex-girlfriend from the eighth grade?" Shawn asked. 

"Isabel is a doctor now, Shawn, that isn't her," Gus snapped. 

"No, not Isabel, Callie! That was totally Callie," Shawn said. 

"Callie and I never dated, and I'm fairly certain that wasn't her. But I suppose I could be mistaken, considering the amount of tattoos," he said hesitantly. 

They came to the door and met another guard. This one was less Chyna, and more Juliet in a guard's uniform. "Welcome to the Santa Barbara County Jail," she said brightly. "Visitor booths are straight to the back. Who you coming to see today, boys?" 

"Ava Dah-Ling," Shawn said. 

"Oh," Guard-Juliet said, looking disappointed in them. "Miss Dah-Ling. Well. Okay then. She should be there. We heard she was getting visitors. Do you know you're the first ones?" 

"No, but it doesn't surprise me," Shawn said. "Actually, I'm psychic, so not much surprises me. But this surprises me even less, because I can't imagine anyone wanting to visit with her." 

Guard-Juliet looked relieved. "Oh, well, no, me either," she said. "So what are you doing here?" 

"I'm the one that put her away," Shawn said. "Single-handedly." 

"It wasn't single-handed," Gus said.

"Okay, I admit it," Shawn said, with a sweet smile for the guard. "I used both of my hands." 

Guard-Juliet laughed, and held the door for them. "Have fun now," she said. 

"What the hell was that?" Gus demanded after they entered the visitor's building. 

"What was what?" Shawn asked. 

"You were totally flirting with that guard," Gus said. 

"That wasn't flirting, that was me being charming," Shawn said. "I can't help that I'm charming. It just comes naturally." 

"I don't know how Lassiter puts up with you," Gus said. 

"Excuse me?" Shawn said. "Have you been taken over by pod-Gus? Two minutes ago you said he made you want to kill yourself!" 

"That was half an hour ago," Gus said.

"I stand corrected," Shawn said.

Gus ignored him. "But now I realize what he must deal with. And you won't even consider moving in with him." 

"I was considering it!" Shawn protested. "You told me I shouldn't!" 

"If you were sure, it wouldn't matter what I say," Gus said. 

"I just can't win with you," Shawn said. "I'm not going to have a fight with Lassiter, and then have the same fight with you. Can we just focus? We're in the middle of a case." 

"There is no case," Gus said. 

"Are you just disagreeing with everything I say now? Of course there's a case. You know there's a case. I explained this," Shawn said patiently. "Cyril is in some kind of trouble." 

"So are you," Gus said, nodding towards the back of the room. "It looks like Ava Dah-Ling has been trying to kill you with her eyes since we walked in." 

"Oh, right, I forgot about her," Shawn said. "Let's get this over with." 

Shawn jogged across the room and sat down at the booth, picking up the phone as he flashed Ava a nervous grin. After a brief pause, Ava moved to lift hers. 

She had since had her hair cut to include bangs, and she shook her head to keep them out of her eyes as she tapped her pink fingernails along the edge of the cubicle. Very few people could pull off prison orange, but Ava was obviously one of them. She looked as glamorous as ever, and had unbuttoned her jumpsuit just far down enough that Shawn could see the edges of a blue lace bra. 

"What do you want, mystic?" Ava asked.

"We need to ask you some questions," Shawn said. 

"We?" Ava said dryly. 

Shawn frowned and looked behind him to see Gus had not moved from the doorway. Gus smiled stiffly and gave a thumbs up. Shawn rolled his eyes and turned back around. "Okay, I have some questions," he said. 

"It always amuses me how many questions psychics ask," Ava said wryly. "Almost as though they don't have any answers of their own." 

"I'm not omniscient, Ava," Shawn said. "Cyril's in trouble. I need your help. You practically ruined the guy's life, you owe him." 

"I've received 25 years," Ava said. "I'd say we're even." 

"Then give yourself some good karma by being the better person," Shawn said. "I just need to know anything you can tell me about Cyril's old crew." 

"Oh, them?" Ava asked. "No one was very interested in what I had to say about them during the trial. He's a bit the darling now instead of me, wouldn't you say? Poor Cyril Riner, wrongly accused. Never mind that he's dirty himself." 

"I’m interested, Ava," Shawn said. "Talk to me." 

Ava sighed dramatically. "Riner, Greenly, Carter and James. I knew they were up to no good the moment I saw them, always sneaking in at all hours, loading their storage in pitch black. You can always tell the criminals." 

"Oh, yes," Shawn said. "I spotted you right away too." 

Ava's eyes flashed angrily, but she was enjoying her audience far too much to storm away. "I'm guessing you're here about Carter, since you know the other two and James is dead," she said. "He was their safe-man; very talented and very smart. I wanted to offer him the job before going to James. I would have preferred him as a partner, if only because he was very nice to look at. James was so cumbersome and stupid." 

"Why didn't you choose him, then?" Shawn asked. 

"Because he was too smart, he would never have deferred to me," Ava said. "He knew I was up to something the moment I started to work him, so I had to settle for stupid James." 

"I don't suppose you have a first name?" he asked. 

Ava shrugged non-committedly. "Maybe Carter is his first name, maybe it's his last, maybe he made it up out of thin air. That's what he called himself, that's all I know. But then, Mark Lyle called himself James. Criminals, huh? Can't trust one of them." 

"Where is he now?" Shawn asked. 

"He's vacationing in the Hamptons," Ava deadpanned. "I'm in prison, you moron, how the hell should I know? You're the psychic. You find him." 

"Right," Shawn said. "Well, it's been a pleasure as always, Ava. I'm relieved to see that prison hasn't changed you." 

"Wait," Ava cried, when Shawn stood to leave. She placed a hand on the glass and blinked up at him with her huge, mesmerizing eyes. "Would you please tell Lassiter I still think of him? I was so hoping he would be at my appeal next month."

"Oh, sure, I'll pass it on when I see him tonight," Shawn said. "It's our anniversary, you know. You've been here a year now, which means that Lassie and I have been dating a year. Time flies when you're having fun, I guess." 

Ava's eyes widened, her mouth dropping in disbelief, and Shawn hung up the phone and went to join Gus at the door.

"Did you learn anything?" Gus asked. 

"No thanks to you," Shawn said. "Great moral support there, buddy." 

"I was supporting you," Gus said. "I was just doing it from the other side of the room." 

"She's behind glass, you know, she can't hurt you," Shawn said.

"So was Hannibal Lector," Gus said. "And look at what he could do." 

"Ava's pretty despicable, but I wouldn't exactly compare her to Hannibal Lector," Shawn said. 

"Whatever you say, Clarice," Gus said. "This is as close as I get." 

"You're being ridiculous," Shawn said. 

"Say what you want, but she doesn't even know who I am," Gus said. "So don't come crying to me if she wants to make a Louis Vuitton bag out of you." 

"I'll have you know, I'd make an awesome Louis Vuitton bag," Shawn said. "My skin's like silk." 

"You don't even moisturize," Gus sneered. "I moisturize twice a day! I keep my head waxed to perfection! If anyone would make an awesome Louis Vuitton bag, it would be me!"

"You're right, I'm sorry, Gus," Shawn said. "You would make a beautiful bag of silky chocolaty goodness." 

"You know that's right," Gus said. 

Shawn pushed through the door, starting back towards to the car. "And when she comes for us, I'll be sure to tell her that." 

"You got that—wait, what? Shawn!" Gus snapped, chasing after him.


	2. Chapter 2

Juliet had only been to Lassiter's new house twice, once Before Shawn, and now, After Shawn, and the transformation was kind of startling. It still had that model home veneer, that untouched pristine air of the anal retentive, but Shawn's influence had seeped in slowly across it all. 

Most obviously he was in the beanbag chair sitting in the living room; more subtlety, in the pictures that had been set up along the mantle. Juliet didn't know whether to be surprised or not that there were only a couple of Shawn. Shawn had obviously gone through Lassiter's old albums, pulling out pictures from every era, and then putting them out on display. 

It was strange to see Lassiter smiling back at her from them, this different person than the man he was at work. She wandered through the hall, noting the vintage James Bond posters framed and hung along the wall leading to the bedroom, recognizing Shawn there too, but in a distant kind of way. Shawn always knew what people wanted; sometimes more than they knew themselves—it was almost as though he'd gone through and made this the house Lassiter hadn't known he wanted.

"So what's this top secret mission?" Juliet asked, peeking around carefully into the bedroom. 

"It's top secret," Lassiter said, throwing his suitcase on the bed, before looking up with a sigh. "The official line is that I'm going to New York for a conference, and it's best that's all you know. We wouldn't want Spencer _divining_ anything from your thoughts and getting ideas of his own." 

"It's not usually Spencer anymore," Juliet said. She saw a Lone Ranger quilt thrown over the chair in the corner, a Goonies shirt half hidden underneath it. 

"What?" Lassiter snapped. 

"Since you've been together, you've been calling him Shawn," Juliet explained. 

"When it comes to work, it's still Spencer," Lassiter snapped. "Why are you here again?" 

"I offered to drive you," Juliet said. "So you could fill me in." 

"Nice try," Lassiter said. "This is need to know only." 

"Not about the case," Juliet said. "What's going on with you and Shawn?" 

"Nothing," Lassiter said, pulling shirts out and throwing them on the bed. Juliet could spot Shawn's shirts there, too, little flecks of bright colors pressed between light and dark blues. "Apparently, we're not going anywhere." 

"Of course you are," Juliet said. "Shawn adores you. He always has." 

"Shawn adores everyone, and everything," Lassiter said. "He doesn't want to be tied to any one thing." 

"You're not a thing, Lassiter," Juliet said, hesitantly stepping inside the bedroom. It felt strange to be here, to see this glimpse inside Lassiter's life with Shawn. They seemed to blend together a lot better than she had imagined. 

"I asked him to move in with me," Lassiter said finally, staring at the shirts he had strewn across his bed, like he didn't know what to do with them next. "Do you know what he said? He said he didn't think I was ready. Me. Can you believe that?" 

"Are you?" Juliet asked quietly. 

"I'm the one that asked," Lassiter snapped. "He's the one that tried to avoid the subject all together." 

"Look at it from Shawn's point of view," Juliet said. "I see you both at work. You still fight each other every step of the way on a case."

"That's different," Lassiter said. "We agreed it was best we didn't let our relationship interfere with our jobs. If I had to cater to his every 'vision' on a case, nothing would ever get done." 

"You're very different people, Lassiter," Juliet said. "I think you're perfect for each other, but it was never going to be easy." 

"Except it is," Lassiter said. "It's the easiest thing in the world, because that's who Shawn is. He knows what I want before I know I want it. He knows more about me than I know about myself." 

"Then if he says you're not ready," Juliet said gently, as she started folding his shirts, "maybe you should listen to him."

* * * * *

"What are we doing here, Shawn?" Gus asked, checking his watch. "The marathon is going to be over in two hours. We've missed the entire Eliza and Raul affair. She's probably already killed him." 

"Please, it was her twin sister that killed him, what kind of fan are you?" Shawn asked, running his eyes across the bullpen. "I don't see Jules or Lassie. Coast is clear." 

"For what?" Gus asked. Shawn ignored him, leaning down and sneaking across the room to Lassiter's desk. "Shawn! Shawn!" he whispered, before racing after him. "What are we doing?" 

"Only name Ava had was Carter," Shawn said, turning on Lassiter's computer and signing in under his name. "We're hardly going to find him in the phone book." 

"How do you have Lassiter's log in?" Gus asked. 

"Please. His password is Rooster Cogburn. I got it in like two tries," Shawn said. 

"Rooster Cogburn?" Gus echoed. "What the hell?" 

"True Grit? John Wayne? No? I thought it was obvious," Shawn said. "But then he's forced me to watch it nineteen times." 

"Can I help you guys with something?" Buzz asked, appearing above them, looking concerned and mildly alarmed at their proximity to Lassiter's desk. 

"Lassie took my limited edition Darth Vader Pez dispenser again," Shawn told him, pulling open a drawer and beginning to rifle through it. "I'll just be a minute. Oh, and actually, I think Gus wanted to talk with you." 

Gus made a quick sign across his throat to try and call Shawn off, but it was too late. Buzz spun to look at Gus. "What is it, Gus?" he asked in concern. 

"Ah, let's go over here," Gus said, gently leading Buzz away, turning back to throw a glare at an oblivious Shawn. 

"So…how did you get so tall?" Gus asked. "Do you wear lifts?" 

"No," Buzz said, sounding bemused. "I just grew this way." 

Shawn quickly brought up Cyril Riner's file, before checking the list of known associates. He scanned through them quickly and then stopped at Carter Raynes. "Gotcha," Shawn said. He read down and memorized the last known address before shutting down the computer. 

Shawn went to close the drawer and smiled faintly as he saw the picture of him and Lassiter sitting on top of a file in his drawer. It had been creatively cropped to remove the bunny ears that Shawn had been holding over Lassiter's head with the fingers of his left hand. He reached in to exam it and froze when the FBI logo on the file underneath it caught his eye.

Shawn glanced up to make sure Gus was still distracting Buzz, and then pulled the file out of the drawer, flipping through it quickly, recognizing Cyril and Fred's names at once. The case file was focused on a murder in New York, which was a strange enough thing to find in Lassiter's desk. What was stranger was that Shawn recognized the victim at once. It was Carter Raynes.

"Old enemies, old friends," Shawn muttered. He tilted his head, noticing a splatter of blood in one of the pictures that was too isolated from where Carter had fallen. "And Grey L. Denfre doing quite unwell." 

"Gus, can we finish this later?" Shawn heard Buzz asking. He glanced up, replacing the file and the photo back in the drawer before jumping to his feet. "Missing, still. I want all hands on deck, Buzz. That Pez is a collectable." 

"I'll keep an eye out for it, but you really shouldn't be over here," Buzz said, eyeing the door nervously. 

"I thought I had full security clearance," Shawn said. "I can go anywhere." 

"Actually, you don't have any clearance level, unless you're on a case, then it's need to know, which currently you're not," Buzz said. 

"Seriously?" Shawn said. "That's disappointing. I've been telling people for years that I have Level 5 clearance for all branches of government." 

"I don't think that's true at all," Buzz said gently. 

"Okay," Shawn said. "We'll just be on our way then." Shawn grabbed Gus by the back of his suit jacket and tugged him along behind him. 

"Ow!" Gus snapped. "Watch the jacket, Shawn! This is new. What's wrong?" 

"That case you think we don't have?" Shawn said. 

"Yeah?" Gus said, disentangling and de-wrinkling himself as they walked. 

"Well, it just turned into a murder case," Shawn said. 

"How can a non-case become a murder case?" Gus demanded. "It's a non-case." 

"Someone got murdered, that's how," Shawn explained. "Carter Raynes, to be precise." 

"Carter Raynes?" Gus said. "And he's from Riner's old crew?" 

"Yes," Shawn said. "He was killed in New York." 

"Riner's postcard was from New York," Gus said. 

"What's your point?" Shawn asked. 

"I'm just saying, Shawn," Gus said.

"I'm not doing this again with you," Shawn said. "How many times must I prove Cyril innocent? He's not a murderer. It's well established. They even wrote a book. It's called _The Innocent Man_. I'm in it, Gus! They called me the 'plucky psychic prisoner.' Those true crime novelists really know how to use alliteration to their advantage." 

"Who uses alliteration to their advantage?" 

Shawn looked up at the voice, pulling himself to a stop just short of slamming into Lassiter. Juliet was hovering behind him, smiling bemusedly. "Dr. Seuss," Shawn said at once. "Because those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind. I thought you were taking your lunch here." 

"I wasn't out to lunch," Lassiter said. 

"Oh," Shawn said. "A new case then?" 

"Not exactly," Lassiter said. "Look, Shawn, can we talk somewhere?" 

"I was just leaving, actually," Shawn said. 

"You aren't here to see me?" Lassiter asked, frowning. "Did Vick—" 

"No, I came to see you," Shawn said quickly. "Actually, I came to ask you out to dinner. For our anniversary." 

"Our anniversary was last month," Lassiter said. 

Shawn frowned. "Really? And you didn't buy me presents?" 

"I bought you a Pineapple fruit bouquet from Edible Arrangements," Lassiter said. 

"Oh! That was from you?" Shawn asked.

"Who did you think it was from?" Lassiter demanded. 

"I don't know, lots of people bring me pineapples," Shawn said. "Scumbag Sal brought me one last week. Of course, it had been gnawed on a little, but he doesn't have enough teeth do too much damage and anyway, it's the thought that counts. You could have left a card." 

"I want to meet this scumbag," Lassiter said, eyes narrowing. "And I did leave a card." 

"Really, what did it say?" Shawn asked. 

Lassiter looked at Gus and Juliet, flushing. "I don't remember," he said. "But it was there!" 

"Maybe the squirrels took it," Shawn said. "I told you they're mounting forces against you. You had best surrender while you still can." 

Lassiter paused a moment, replaying their conversation and obviously wondering how he had let it degenerate to this point. "Can we just go somewhere for a minute?" 

"Can't stop right now," Shawn said. "Just tell me what's wrong." 

"Nothing's wrong," Lassiter said. 

"Then we'll talk tonight," Shawn said. "Miró's. Seven O’clock. We'll meet at your place. Can you make it?" 

"Miró's? It's impossible to get reservations there," Lassiter said. "How did you manage that?" 

"You forget who you're talking to," Shawn said, grinning widely as he stepped backwards to the door. "Don't be late!" 

Shawn's smile faded as he stomped down the precinct's front steps, Gus hot on his heels. "Hey," Gus called. "What's wrong? I thought you wanted to go out to dinner?" 

"I do! But he's hiding things from me!" Shawn said, crossing his arms as they headed towards the Echo. "He didn't say a word about the case! He had an FBI file in his desk about Carter Rayne's death, Gus. He knows about Cyril's connection, and he doesn't think that's important?" 

"You haven't given him a proper chance," Gus said reasonably, as they got into the car and pulled out into the street. "And it isn't like you're being exactly honest with him." 

Shawn frowned, thwarted. "He did say we need to talk," he admitted. "Maybe he's going to tell me tonight." 

"I'm sure he will," Gus said. "I've got newfound respect for Lassiter. You're not exactly the best boyfriend there ever was. Hanging around with guys like Scumbag Sal and flirting with prison guards." 

"You don't even know Scumbag Sal," Shawn said. 

"I don't associate with scumbags, Shawn," Gus snapped. 

"What about sleazeballs? Scuzzbags? Slimeballs? Oh, slimebags!?" Shawn said, before frowning thoughtfully. "Or any other variety of balls or bags?" 

"No, Shawn," Gus said. "None of the above. I associate with a higher class of people." 

"Then how do you explain me?" Shawn asked. 

"I can't explain you," Gus said. 

"Fair enough," Shawn said. "Me, I like a lower class of people. You don't have to look up when you talk to them or use words like 'contraire'." 

"They're going to eat you alive at Miró's, Shawn," Gus said smugly. 

"I read their menus on line, and I'm fairly certain I wasn't on it. Although some of it was in Spanish," Shawn said. "It's not one of those places where you need a suit jacket is it? I can wear this, right?" 

Gus looked Shawn over with one side of his mouth curling back. Shawn had on torn jeans, white sneakers, and a pink shirt that said 'Dr. Drake Ramoré Saved My Life.' He wanted to say it was the complete disaster it sounded, but Shawn could almost pull it off. "No way can you wear that, Shawn," Gus said. 

"I'm a contest winner, it's not like they can kick me out," Shawn said. 

"Maybe, but do you really want to embarrass Lassiter?" Gus demanded.

"That's like one of my favorite pastimes," Shawn said. "I've been known to arrange my day around it." 

"You really are the worst boyfriend ever," Gus said. "The least you can do is make yourself look nice for him." 

"I'm not some 50s housewife," Shawn said. "I don't need to go home and put on my face. My face came pre-made." 

"You're coming home with me, and I'm putting you in something classy," Gus insisted. 

"Half of your dress shirts are lavender," Shawn protested. "I have standards." 

"You're wearing pink," Gus said. 

Shawn raised an eyebrow. "So are you." 

Gus looked down at his silky pinstriped shirt, and ran a hand down in it in offense. "This is stylish," he said. "And for your information, it's not pink, it's salmon."

"That you would refer to a color as 'salmon' does not at all help your case," Shawn said, glaring out the window as they pulled up to Gus's apartment. "Oh, man. This isn't going to be like that year in second grade when your Aunt Isla bought you a Ken doll, and you kept dressing it up and carrying it around all through summer break, is it? Because I'm not going to be your substitute Ken doll." 

"That wasn't a Ken doll, Shawn," Gus snapped. "It was a large-size G.I. Joe. And his name was Humphrey." 

"I don't even know what to say that," Shawn said, getting out of the car with a sigh. 

"You need to grow up," Gus told him as he jogged up the steps to his landing. "You're in a real relationship now, with a real guy. You can't just keep walking around dressing like you're still in high school."

"Have you seen the way high school kids dress these days?" Shawn demanded. "It's like they all think they're going to Constance Billiard. I can't compete with that." 

"Whatever, Shawn," Gus said, shoving Shawn inside. "I put up with a lot from you, and I trust you to figure most stuff out. But when it comes to fashion, I'm gonna win hands down." 

"I respect that you want to believe that," Shawn said. "But I could be fashionable if I wanted." 

"Maybe you're forgetting our brief stint as models? Which one of us fit in more?" Gus demanded. 

"I wouldn't go bragging about that," Shawn said. "Those people were kind of scary." 

Gus ignored him, grabbing Shawn by the wrist to drag him to the bedroom. He started throwing stuff on the bed behind him, most of it landing on Shawn. "Okay, I'm gonna let you wear my favorite grey suit jacket, but if anything happens to this jacket, Shawn, I'm gonna have to kill you." 

"But I don't want to borrow your jacket," Shawn protested, as Gus stuffed it into his arms along with a light blue silk dress shirt. "You can't threaten to kill me over something you're forcing on me!" 

"I can threaten to kill you any time I like," Gus said. "As your best friend, that is my right. Now I'm gonna go catch the end of the soap opera marathon. You get dressed." 

Shawn looked down at the clothes in distaste as Gus shut the door behind him. "Did you base all of your fashion choices on Nash Bridges?" he yelled after him.

"Get dressed!" Gus called back. 

Shawn heaved another sigh, before pulling his Dr. Ramoré shirt over his head and dragging the silky blue shirt on in its place. He buttoned it up and tried on the pants Gus had thrown at his head. He looked down at the pants, and thought about it, and then took them off and put his jeans back on. He grabbed the jacket and stormed out of the bedroom. 

Gus pulled his eyes from the television screen after a moment and eyed him critically. "Well, at least you look respectable from the waist up." 

"I couldn't do it, Gus," Shawn said. "Do you have to buy your pants so tight? And why are they so shiny? Are you moonlighting as a Tom Jones impersonator?"

"My clothes aren't shiny," Gus snapped. "They're polished." He got to his feet and pushed Shawn's hands out of the way, before fixing the out of place buttons on his shirt. 

"I look like Ryan Seacrest," Shawn said, looking down at himself despondently. "No, worse than that, I look like that guy who used to host _American Idol_ with Ryan Seacrest but nobody remembers anymore." 

"His name is Brian Dunkleman, and he has impeccable taste," Gus said. 

"It saddens me when you know these things, Gus," Shawn said.

"I guess you're almost dressed nice," Gus said with a frown. "Maybe if you were a Rock Star you could even get away with it." 

"It's on my list," Shawn admitted. "I'm still holding out for you to sign on as my backup singer. Lassie could play the tambourine." 

"Speaking of Lassiter," Gus said. "Are you planning to tell him you know about his case?" 

"It isn't my place to tell him," Shawn said. "I found out about it by searching his desk. I shouldn't have to resort to such things. He should have told me the moment he knew. And what are the FBI doing going to Lassie with this anyway?" 

"Maybe because he's the one that caught Riner," Gus said. "Twice." 

"No, I get that, but why didn't they ask me?" Shawn asked. "Who knows that case better than me?" 

"But you didn't catch Riner," Gus said. "You walked around telling everyone he was innocent and then met a murderer at an abandoned storage facility while Lassiter brought Riner in. If they think he's guilty, why would they want to go to you?" 

"So I can tell them he's not guilty!" Shawn said at once. 

"What if he is this time?" Gus asked. 

"You remember when everyone thought Lassie killed that guy, and I didn't?" Shawn asked. 

"Vaguely," Gus said. "But I'm still not sure I believe he didn't beyond the shadow of a doubt." 

"Gus!" Shawn said. "Of course he didn't! And I knew he didn't, from the start! Not because I'm psychic, but because I know people! Name one time I've been wrong about something like this." 

"How about our first case, when you thought Katarina McAllister had killed her brother," Gus said. 

"That doesn't count!" Shawn protested. "I never thought she did it, I just let myself get sidetracked by evidence. My first instinct was that she was innocent and I was right. I know people, Gus. Cyril's a planner. If he was going to murder someone, and I stress the 'if,' he'd make sure there was nothing that could tie it back to him." 

"So your defense for him is that he'd be such a good murderer, we wouldn't know about it, and since we know about it, he couldn't have possibly have done it?" Gus asked incredulously. 

"Exactly. Now you've got it," Shawn said brightly. He glanced at the clock and frowned. "It's almost seven, we've got to go." 

Gus grinned brightly. "I get to come?" he asked. "Cause I've always—" 

"Don't be Frankie Santana from the fifth season of _The A-Team_. Of course you're not coming," Shawn said. "My bike's still at my apartment, so you're driving me to Lassiter's." 

Gus glared at him, spinning around and stomping from the room. 

"Gus? Come on, Gus!" Shawn said, chasing after him. "I promise I'll make it up to you!"

* * * * *

Lassiter was going to be cutting it close. His flight was leaving at 9:30, which only gave him an hour for dinner with Shawn before he had to rush to the airport. He'd already put his bags in the trunk. 

Vick had wanted Juliet to drive him straight there, considering the extra security he would require to get his gun cleared to be kept in his checked bag. Lassiter had promised he would make it there on his own in plenty of time, but that he had some things to take care of first. 

Lassiter rubbed his palms along his pant legs as he dropped to sit on the porch steps to wait for Shawn. Lassiter wasn't the world's best liar on the best of days, and Shawn wasn't exactly easy to fool. He may know Shawn isn't psychic, but it didn't make his abilities any less astounding. "I have to go to a conference," Lassiter tried to say, but the words sounded stilted and stuck. 

He placed his head in his hands and took a deep breath. It wasn't that he didn't agree with Vick's reasoning—he didn't want Shawn involved in this any more than she did, but he knew Shawn, and lying wouldn't stop him.

All lying would do would spark his curiosity, and make it even more difficult to keep him out of it. 

Lassiter looked up as Guster's tiny blue car sped down the street and screeched to a stop in front of the house. Shawn came stumbling out of the passenger seat, barely getting clear before the car took off again. Shawn spun around, tossing a careless wave at Lassiter before jogging up to him like nothing had happened. 

Lassiter noted the stylish jacket, and shiny blue shirt, recognizing them as Guster's, though the aviator sunglasses, torn jeans and scuffed sneakers were just as obviously Shawn's own. He looked down at his own dull brown suit and stripped white shirt and cursed himself for not changing when he had the chance.

"Lassie," Shawn said brightly. 

He got to his feet, catching Shawn by the wrist to pull him close for a kiss. "You look nice," he said. "What's with Guster?"

"I wanted him to wear a Chauffeur's hat and call me Miss Daisy, but he's got no sense of whimsy," Shawn told him. 

"Right. Look, Shawn, we've got to talk," Lassiter started. 

"We can talk in the car," Shawn said, tugging Lassiter towards it. "We're going to miss our reservation." 

Lassiter climbed into the car with a sigh, letting himself be stalled. He didn't see this evening ending well, but there was no reason not to enjoy the night while he could. "So what have you been up today?" Lassiter asked as Shawn dropped down beside him. 

"Oh, you know, just hanging around," Shawn said. "Let's get a move on, Lassie." 

"Seatbelt first," Lassiter said. 

Shawn rolled his eyes, but reached up to snap it around him. "Okay, so what were you going to tell me?" he asked. 

Lassiter backed up and then started down the street, hands at ten and two, eyes straight ahead. "You first. You never told me what you did today," Lassiter said. 

"Yes I did," Shawn said. "I said, 'oh, you know, just hanging around.' It was fifty seconds ago, I remember it clearly."

"Yeah, then what were you doing at the station?" Lassiter asked. 

Shawn squinted into the side view mirror, spotting a 1971 lime green Ford Pinto trailing two cars behind them. "I came to see you." 

"And rushed off the moment I got there?" Lassiter demanded. "You're up to something." 

"I was planning our anniversary," Shawn said, as the Pinto followed their turn, coming up closer behind them. He catalogued the driver: Hispanic, the far side of thirty, hair shaved close and wearing a hooded jacket over a button up shirt. "How was I supposed to know we'd already had it? You're so suspicious."

"Of course I am," Lassiter said. "You never do anything without a reason, Shawn. No matter how insane or random it appears at the time." 

"That is patently untrue," Shawn said. "I once watched an entire episode of _Jersey Shore_. There was absolutely no reason for it." 

Lassiter sighed, but decided not to push him. He couldn't exactly hold it against Shawn for keeping something from him, considering the secrets that were piling up on his side. "Okay," he said. "So let's just have a nice dinner." 

"I'm not sure that's going to be possible," Shawn said. "We're going to Miró's." 

"It's one of the highest rated restaurants in Santa Barbara," Lassiter protested. 

"Incorrect," Shawn said, relaxing in the seat as he watched the Pinto turn left behind them. "It is one of the most expensive restaurants. That is not the same. I'd much rather have won a free dinner at Crab Shack Willy's. They do that little dance whenever you order the Seafood Scampi, it's adorable. I admit, I was reluctant to believe Crab Shack Willy's could possibly be a real place, but after my dad dragged me there for the third time I—"

"Shawn, we don't have to go," Lassiter interrupted. "And what do you mean won a free dinner?" 

"Of course we have to go! Didn't I tell you dinner was free? I was like the hundredth caller or something, who knows? I can't keep track of how I win these things. And anyway, Gus would kill me if I didn't use this reservation after I wouldn't give it to him, and then you'd have to arrest him, the trial would go on for months," Shawn said. "We can't allow it to happen. Gus is too pretty for prison, and I'm far too pretty to die." 

Lassiter frowned as he pulled into the parking lot for Miró's. "Well, I've always wanted to go here," he said. 

"Really?" Shawn asked. "Always? What, was it your first word? _Mirooo—Miro—"_

"Shawn," Lassiter snapped. 

Shawn tried not to draw attention to the lime green Pinto that had just pulled into the parking lot from the other direction. Shawn had to hand it to the driver; he was pretty good at keeping a tail. The choice of car, however, kind of made all of his hard work for naught. It wasn't exactly easy to miss. 

Shawn was sure Lassiter would have noticed it too, if he hadn't been doing his best to distract him the whole drive. There was no reason to tell Lassiter they were being followed until Shawn knew why—after all, there could be a perfectly reasonable explanation, and Lassiter was prone to overreact.

Shawn kept one eye on the car just in case as they went inside the restaurant. The driver didn't get out of the car, so Shawn decided not to worry about him. He pushed in front of Lassiter as they entered the restaurant, and threw a full blow grin at the hostess. "We have reservations," he said. "Spencer. Shawn Spencer." 

The girl had her hair pulled up into a high ponytail, and the kind of oversized glasses that would have gotten her made fun of if she'd gone to school with the Breakfast Club kids, but was now considered chic. She looked down at Shawn's torn jeans with a lop-sided grin, before grabbing the menus and saying, "This way, please." 

Shawn liked her right away and was getting ready to change his opinion of this place, when she led them inside. The walls were red, abstractedly painted with black dots in random spaces and strange sculptures in strategic places—possibly meant to disguise the exits and keep people from escape. 

"Your waiter will be with you in a moment," the girl said, before heading back towards the lobby. 

"Well, I think it's lovely," Shawn said, as they sat down. "It's like this place was built in tribute to Minnie Mouse." 

"It is, in fact, a tribute to Surrealism," a haughty voice interrupted. 

Shawn glanced up at the waiter, who looked like he was auditioning to play a snobbish waiter on a reunion episode of _Seinfeld_. "I'm sorry; I didn't realize they were different things." 

The waiter squinted at him, obviously trying to hold his tongue. "My name is Henri," he said. "I'll be your waiter." 

"Henry, of course," Shawn said. "I should have guessed. You have the disposition of a Henry." 

"No, Henri," he said, tilting his head, "with an 'I.'"

"My mistake, Henriwithani," Shawn said at once. "I'm Shawn Spencer."

Henri pursed his lips shut to keep back a response, his eyes going to Shawn's worn sneakers. "You must be the contest winner. You get one meal each, and one drink. Anything else and you have to pay for it."

"Thank you for making that clear, I'm glad we're all set. I was worried when I didn't receive a coupon so I could review the terms and conditions," Shawn said primly. "And now if you don't mind, we will need a moment to read your menu. We usually just have to pick a number and the meal is all ready to go." 

"Well, I do believe there is an enterprising young man that pushes a hot dog cart down the connecting street, if that is more to your tastes," Henri said evenly. 

"This is fine, thank you," Lassiter said, leaving no room for argument. As Henri sneered and wandered off, he raised an eyebrow at Shawn. "Do you have to antagonize the waiter?" 

"If he's going to make me feel like I'm Julia Roberts in _Pretty Woman_ , then I'm going to treat him like a snooty store clerk," Shawn said. "I guess that makes you Richard Gere. Did you know that his middle name is Tiffany?" 

Lassiter grabbed at his tie, pulling it a bit looser. He kept eyeing the walls as though he expected them to attack. "Maybe we should have gone to Willy's Crab Shack, after all."

"It's Crab Shack Willy's, not Willy's Crab Shack. It confused me too," Shawn said. "It was possibly named by a pirate." 

Lassiter tapped the fingers of his right hand along the surface of the table. "Where did that waiter go?" 

"Chill out, Lassie," Shawn whispered, leaning forward. "You look like you're about to pull a gun on that sculpture of the one-breasted seal." 

" _That_ is a Joan Miró original," Henri protested, appearing at Shawn's elbow as though by teleportation. 

"She certainly was original, I'll give you that," Shawn said, glancing up. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Miró was a man," Henri said haughtily. 

"Well, someone should have told his parents that before they named him Joan," Shawn told him. 

Henri's hands clenched around his notepad, and he forced himself to meet Shawn's eyes. "Have you decided on your order? I can assign them numbers, if you think it will help." 

"That won't be necessary. I believe I was able to decipher it after careful review. I'll have the Braised Short Ribs with Potato Gateau and Marrow Jus," he said with perfect diction. 

Henri paused for a moment, thrown at the correct pronunciation, before turning to Lassiter. 

"Uh…the Halibut," Lassie said. 

"As you wish," Henri said, and disappeared again in a huff. 

Shawn returned his attention to Lassiter. "Seriously, what is wrong with you?" 

"Okay, Shawn, there's something I—"

Shawn frowned as he saw the man from the Pinto peeking around the corner of the hallway leading to the restrooms. He disappeared as soon as he was spotted, and Shawn shot to his feet. "I've got to go to the little boy's room," he said. "Hold that thought." 

"Shawn," Lassiter hissed, but he was already half way across the room. 

Shawn carefully slipped into the hallway, frowning at the door to the men's room, which was still swinging closed. He stepped inside, glancing toward the sinks before turning to the stalls. 

The door slammed closed behind him and Shawn spun around just in time to see the man turn the lock. 

"Do I know you?" Shawn asked politely. 

"They call me the One Hit Wonder," he said. "Cause I can take anyone down with one hit." 

"That's a horrible nickname," Shawn protested. "Dude, your name is Juan León. That's one of the coolest names I've ever heard. It _rhymes_. I really think you could get by without the nickname. But if it's absolutely necessary, you can do better than that." 

"How do you know my name?" he growled. 

"Please, I know every criminal in this town," Shawn said, pushing himself to his full height, which put him just about level with Juan's chin. "This is my town. And also it's embroidered on your polo shirt." 

Juan looked down, and Shawn followed his gaze, tiling his head as he saw there was writing on the other side as well. He could only make out an 'ine' placed over an 'tion,' the jacket was covering the rest of the words. "Damn," Juan said. "Forgot I was wearing that." 

"It's a perfectly understandable mistake," Shawn assured him. "Hey, have you thought of going by 'Juan Hit Wonder'?" 

Juan laughed. "Juan Hit Wonder, I like that," he said, but his smile flickered out as quickly as a wet match. He grabbed the lapels of Gus's favorite suit jacket, and lifted Shawn up onto his toes. "But that's not why I'm here." 

"Are you here for the lobster?" Shawn asked. "Because it's on special." 

"I'm here for the diamonds," Juan snapped. "You don't know what you're into, kid. Just hand them over, and you don't have to get hurt. I like you, you're sort of funny. That's rare to find in my line work, so I'd really hate to have to hit you so hard that mouth of yours has to get wired shut."

"I wouldn't recommend that," Shawn said. "You know that guy I was with? He's a cop. which, I know, right? That's bad enough. But he's a trigger-happy cop, which is worse. And for reasons I've yet to accurately record, he's pretty fond of me." 

"I know who he is," Juan said. "And I know where he is. He's out there. We're in here. And you've got ten seconds to give me what I want." 

"Ten seconds?" Shawn echoed. "Seriously, how is that realistic? I'm here on a date! What, you think I walk around with a satchel of diamonds stuck down my pants? If I did have your diamonds, which I don't, I certainly wouldn't have them on me." 

"Then tell me where they are," Juan said, "before I rearrange your face." 

"And now you've stooped to clichés," Shawn said in disappointment. "You were doing so well at first. That getting my mouth wired stuff was gold." 

"We know Riner told you where to find them," Juan snapped. "He was getting paranoid about his old crew, but you and him go way back, yeah?" 

"I was working a case," Shawn protested. "It's not like we bought matching 'BFF' necklaces or anything. I haven't even seen him in a year!" 

"I got a source's told me different," Juan said. "So forgive me for not trusting you." 

"Does this source have a name?" Shawn asked. "Because if it's Wikipedia, studies have shown that it's 76% untrue." 

"Okay, that's more than ten seconds," Juan said, reaching back to prepare his fist for a swing. "It's time I show you just how accurate my nickname is." 

"Wait! Okay, okay," Shawn said. "They're in New York! Of course they are. How would Cyril have gotten them here? He can't exactly post them." Shawn pressed his eyes shut for a moment, remembering the police file of the robbery of the FBI locker and the shot of New York Trust Bank right across the street. "It's in a safety deposit box, in New York Trust. He used the name Rily Criner. He's planning to pick them up once the heat's off him." 

Juan lowered Shawn back down, before straightening his jacket. "See? Was that so hard?" 

"You're never going to find him, you know," Shawn said. 

"You'd better hope I do and the diamonds too," Juan said. "Cause if I don't, you're gonna be seeing me again real soon. And next time I don't plan on being quite this polite." 

"You do have pretty good manners for a criminal," Shawn allowed. 

"If you know what's good for you, you'll keep your head down," Juan said. "You've got no idea what's going on. You're messing with the wrong people." 

"Noted," Shawn said. "I promise to seriously consider it, if you promise to start telling people to call you Juan Hit Wonder." 

"You're a little nuts, aren't you?" Juan asked, before he spun around to leave. 

"I prefer eccentric," Shawn called after him, before leaning against one of the sinks and taking a deep breath. When he looked up again, the door had swung shut behind Juan. 

Shawn considered going to Lassiter to tell him what had happened, but Juan would be busy looking for a non-existent safety deposit box and Shawn had a date to finish. If he let something as insignificant as a few menacing threats ruin his night, he'd never have any fun. Anyway, Lassiter had become somewhat protective since they had gotten together. He tended to go all sexy cop when stuff like this happened, and while entertaining, it would give Lassiter the upper hand. 

He decided to keep it to himself for now. He would tell Lassiter what he knew about Cyril when Lassiter told him what he knew about him first.

Shawn pushed out of the bathroom, checking the hall for thugs before returning to his seat. Lassiter frowned at him as he sat down. "What's wrong with you?" he asked. 

Shawn glanced down to see their food had arrived. It looked like someone had run a proper meal through a shrink ray, but it smelled good enough. He grabbed his fork and absently speared a potato. "I had three Pineapple smoothies this morning. You know they go straight through me." 

Lassiter winced. "Okay," he said. "But there's something I really need to tell you." 

"Are these ribs bite sized?" Shawn asked, before squinting out the window to watch the Pinto drive off before looking back at his food. "Did we order off the kid's menu?" 

"Shawn—" 

"So much for a free meal," Shawn said. "I can get this much food by cruising the sample stations at Cosco." 

"Shawn, I—"

"And look at yours!" Shawn said. "My dad has bait bigger than that thing." 

"I've got to go to a conference," Lassiter blurted out. 

Shawn froze, his eyes going wide. "Come again?" 

"It's only for a few days," Lassiter said, before pausing. "Well, maybe longer; a week, two at the most." 

"What is this? We have one little fight and you're skipping town?" Shawn demanded. 

"Vick made it very clear that this wasn't optional," Lassiter said. "Someone has to go to this conference, and I drew the short straw. I wanted to tell you as soon as I found out, but then I thought maybe it would be best if we just went to dinner and—" 

"Yes, brilliant timing," Shawn said, before standing up. “In case I forget to tell you later, I had a really good time tonight.”

"Shawn," Lassiter started, but Shawn walked past him to the door. Lassiter got up to follow him, ignoring the smirk Henri threw him as he chased Shawn out the door. 

Shawn stopped in the middle of the parking lot. "You're unbelievable, you know that? A conference? Really?" 

"You know the job, Shawn," Lassiter said, catching up to him. "We do have to go to conferences." 

"Oh, right, of course," Shawn said, as he turned to start for the street. "And let me guess—this one's in New York." 

Lassiter grabbed Shawn's arm and spun him back around. "What do you know?" he demanded. 

"Not a thing, because you won't talk to me!" Shawn said. 

"Don't give me that, Shawn," Lassiter said. "I know very well you're no psychic. So if you know that, you heard it somewhere." 

"Maybe I heard someone mention the conference at the station," Shawn lied. 

"You've known all this time and you've just let me—" Lassiter broke off with a sigh. 

"Maybe I didn't believe it," Shawn said slowly. "Maybe I thought you were going to talk to me about something else." 

"There's nothing else to talk about. I didn't want to go. I didn't. With everything going on, I tried to get out of it," Lassiter said. 

"No, it's fine. This 'conference' could be your big break. Who knows what could happen if it all goes to plan," Shawn said. "So you go ahead and you do what you have to do." 

"It's just a conference," Lassiter said weakly.

"Yeah," Shawn said. "So you've said. Well, it's been fun, really it has. But I'm sure you've got to pack." 

"I already packed. My flight leaves in less than two hours," Lassiter said. "But we need to talk about this first, Shawn. Let's just go to the airport, you can—" 

"No, sorry, I really wish I could," Shawn said, turning to walk away again. "But seeing as how this is work related and I'm not currently working a case, you should probably see it through on your own, don't you think?" 

"Shawn!" Lassiter shouted. "Get back here. Spencer!" 

"You've got a flight to catch," Shawn said, spinning around to face him, but continuing to walk backwards towards the road. "I'll find my own way home." 

Shawn waited until he was far enough away that his dramatic exit wouldn't be ruined by calling for a ride, and then pulled out his phone. He was reluctant to call Gus after he'd had his little tantrum earlier about having to drop Shawn off. Which only left one person—Shawn sighed and dialed the phone, knowing he was going to regret this. 

"Hi, Dad," he said. "Can you come pick me up?"


	3. 3

Shawn was, rather uncharacteristically, where he had said he would be. Henry pulled his truck up to the curb. Shawn was laid out on a patch of grass, arms thrown out, probably turning what looked like one of Gus's jackets green. Shawn pushed himself to his feet when he heard the motor, and climbed into the passenger seat without looking Henry in the eye. 

"Home, James," he said. 

Henry snorted, but pulled out into the road. "You gonna tell me what happened?" Henry asked. 

Shawn rested his forehead against the side window and closed his eyes. To calm himself down, he pictured the road signs they were passing. He had most of Santa Barbara memorized. "It's like when Edward tells Vivian that he never treated her like a prostitute, and she says, you just did." 

"Lassiter is treating you like a prostitute?" Henry snapped, sounding caught between incredulity and indignation. 

"You're missing the point," Shawn said, forcing himself to open his eyes. "He's got a new case." 

"He's a cop," Henry said. "He's going to get new cases all the time." 

"Yes, and I know about them, and sometimes if I'm not busy, I solve them for him," Shawn said. "But this is different. He won't talk to me about it. He won't even admit to it. He's lying to me, and I mean, this guy can't lie, he can't, and he did it to me anyway. To me. Like I wouldn't know."

"He knows you're not psychic—you can be lied to, believe it or not," Henry said. "Maybe he doesn't have a choice, did you think of that? You're a civilian, Shawn. Lassiter probably shouldn't be telling you half of the stuff he already does." 

"He doesn't have to tell me, I can find out on my own," Shawn said. "But he doesn't have to lie." 

"You lie to him all the time," Henry said. "You used to make a living off it. Still do, with everyone else." 

"That's different," Shawn protested.

"Oh, right," Henry said. "I forgot; rules don't apply to you, right? They're for all those other people." 

"Yes! Exactly," Shawn said. "Now, if you could just maybe call up Lassie and explain that to him?" 

Henry snorted. "You're on your own with this one, kid," he said. "I'm not getting involved." 

"You're not getting involved?" Shawn said. "Since when?" 

"Since you finally settled down with someone I trust," Henry said. "You've finally stopped running from everything, Shawn. Don't start up again now." 

"I'm not the one heading to the airport," Shawn said. 

"The airport?" Henry asked. 

"Yeah. Apparently Lassie has a 'conference' in New York," Shawn said.

"I sense skepticism," Henry said. 

"It's good to know that age hasn't dulled your deduction skills any," Shawn said. "This would be where the lying comes in. There's no conference." 

"You know that for sure?" Henry asked. 

"Yeah, it's for sure," Shawn said. "He's helping the FBI on a case. And the worst part is, I know I could help. I'm connected to it already, but he wants to keep me in the dark? It's like all of that trust we've been building is gone just like that." 

"Maybe he's got a good reason for keeping you out of it," Henry said. 

Shawn crossed his arms and slunk further down in his seat. "You and Gus should start a Lassie fan club," Shawn said. "You're supposed to be on my side." 

"I'm not taking sides, Shawn," Henry said. 

"But you should be," Shawn protested. "And it should be mine." 

"Okay, then let me ask you something," Henry said. "Did you call him on it?" 

"Call him on what?" Shawn asked. 

"On his lie," Henry asked. "You said you know he's lying for a fact. So did you ask him why?" 

"Of course not!' Shawn said. "I didn't give him the satisfaction. I lied right back." 

Henry pulled up outside of Shawn's apartment and shook his head. "Then you really don't have the higher ground, do you? All you've done is pull Lassiter to your level." 

"I resent that," Shawn said. "He came down to my level all on his own." 

Henry turned off the truck, looking over at Shawn's apartment with a frown. He'd never particularly liked this part of town. Shawn had chosen it because of the beach, and because at the time he'd chosen it, his choices never really mattered at all that much. He kept changing them all the time. 

"You going to invite me in?" Henry asked. 

"Why?" Shawn asked. "So we can eat cookie dough and burn Lassie's photo in effigy?" 

"I'd settle for a beer," Henry said. 

Shawn heaved a sigh and pushed himself out of the car. He knew it was the least that he could do. "Yeah, okay," he said. "Lassie usually keeps a six-pack here. He says I drive him to drink." 

Shawn jogged up the steps to his front door as Henry came around the truck. He opened the door, took one look inside, and then pulled it shut again, swinging around to smile disarmingly at Henry. "Actually, we should probably just go to Tony Blair's Pub. I forgot, Lassie only drinks Hefeweizen, and you know I don't keep any of the normal beer around. It dulls the senses!" 

Henry's eyes went straight to the plastic pineapple sitting on the porch, twisted slightly open at the middle. "Please tell me you don't keep a key in that thing," he said, rubbing at his eyes. 

"I’m fairly certain there's no key in it," Shawn assured him. 

"Move out of the way," Henry said, looking up. 

"I don't think that's such a good idea," Shawn said. "My place is a mess. It's not fit for company." 

"It can't be worse than your room at seventeen," Henry said, grabbing Shawn's arm and pulling him down the steps, before moving past him and through the door. 

"Okay, don't overreact!" Shawn said, following on his heels. "I'm sure it's not as bad as it looks." 

Henry turned on the light and frowned at the scene. Shawn's apartment had been torn apart. Everything had been pulled off the shelves, his kitchen table was on its side, and his couch cushions had been slit through the middle. He put out an arm to keep Shawn from passing him. "Call the police, Shawn," he said. 

"Don't you think that's kind of premature?" he asked. "The squirrels could have done this. I warned Lassie a dozen times, but nobody listened."

"Shawn," Henry snapped. "Call them. I'm going to make sure this place is clear." 

"Don't you think I should do that?" Shawn asked. "You're all…old." 

"You've lost fights to Gus, I'll be going first," Henry snapped. 

"I've never lost to him," Shawn said, but he pulled out his phone. "At worst it was a draw." 

Henry picked up a broken tennis racket up off the floor, and started to sneak down the hall on the balls of his feet. Shawn frowned. He had borrowed that tennis racket from Gus, and he was not going to be happy. 

Shawn dialed up Juliet. "Hey, Jules," he said. "How's it going?" 

"Shawn, hi, I'm a bit busy, actually," she said. "Can I help you with something?" 

"Oh, nothing much," Shawn said. "Only my place has been broken into and trashed. But it's probably nothing." 

"Shawn!" Juliet said, breathless in a way Shawn knew meant she was already moving. "I'll be right there." 

Shawn stuck his phone back in his pocket and followed after his father, splitting off from him as Henry went down to the hall to bathroom. Shawn entered his bedroom, his heart clenching a little as he looked at the chaos. It was just stuff, he told himself. He'd never cared much for stuff. 

He stepped over the broken glass spread out around the bedroom door. A photo of him and Gus from ten years ago had shattered, along with a picture of him and Lassiter on his father's porch. Then Shawn saw the disemboweled figure in the chair across the room. 

"No!" he cried, stepping across to it in disbelief. 

Henry appeared behind him, tennis racket at the ready. "Shawn! Shawn, what is it?" 

"They killed Eugene!" Shawn said, turning to look at his father. Shawn's stuffed Panda was now more snuffed than stuffed. He had been slit from navel to neck, his insides all pulled out and spread across the floor. "Okay, that's it! I was going to be reasonable about this, but he's gone too far." 

"What the hell is that thing?" Henry asked, finally lowering the racket. 

"That is Eugene," Shawn said. "Why is it always the innocent that suffer?" 

Henry sighed. He'd seen to many victims cope by fixating on something insignificant to yell at Shawn for taking this too lightly. "Sorry, kiddo," he said. "Let's go wait for the police, alright?" 

Henry led Shawn back into the living room, and Shawn dropped down on his ruined couch. Henry frowned over at the fridge. "Shawn," he said. "Look at this. Think this is some kind of message?" 

Shawn glanced up to see what his father was talking about, and frowned when he realized Cyril's postcards were gone. All that was left was Shawn's red marker lines, looking like random squiggles without the cards to connect them. "Oh," he said. "No. I did that earlier." 

"Think you should call Lassiter?" Henry asked. 

"He's probably on the plane," Shawn said. "Anyway, he'd only blame me for this. Or poor misunderstood Scumbag Sal." 

"And who do you think is to blame?" Henry asked, going for casual. He hadn't missed it when Shawn said 'he's gone too far.' It was obvious he knew who was behind it and probably why, but Shawn didn't like to show his hand. One of the first things he learned on the job was to always be less direct when questioning witnesses than you were with suspects. Henry always had to be three times as subtle when it was Shawn. 

"Probably the same guy that cornered me in the bathroom at Miró's tonight and threatened to break my jaw," Shawn said. 

Henry bit back his automatic response, that instinctive urge to yell at Shawn for not telling him earlier, as though it didn't rate a mention. Shawn's view of the world had always been slightly to the left of everyone else, and Henry had tried to make his peace with that. Instead of yelling, he calmly grabbed a notepad and pencil off the counter, before holding them out to Shawn. "Want to do a sketch of him?" he asked. When Shawn hesitated, he added, "He might be responsible for Eugene." 

Shawn took the notepad, and absently started sketching. "It's not my fault this time, you know," he said. "I don't even have what they want." 

"What do they want?" Henry asked. 

Shawn paused, looking up at Henry with narrowed eyes as he caught on to the interrogation. "Well, if I don't have it, I wouldn't know." 

"If you don't know, how would you know you don't have it?" Henry asked. 

"This conversation is entirely too confusing," Shawn said. "If we continue any longer we're going to have to call upon the _Friends_ writers to act as intermediaries." 

Before Henry could decipher that, Juliet was entering the room, her gun held down, eyes sharp. Henry saw a uniformed officer about twice her size enter behind her, surveying the room with large eyes. Henry was pretty sure he was the officer that Shawn referred to as 'Buzz.' "What happened here?" Juliet asked, carefully moving her gun to her holster as she saw the apartment was clear. 

"Jules!" Shawn said happily. "You came! I'm sorry I didn't have time to clean up." 

"That's okay," Juliet said. "Where's Lassiter, Shawn?" 

"He's gong to a conference, remember?" Shawn asked. "Or is the conference need to know? You know those pesky conferences. So hush hush." 

Juliet turned to Henry. "Any idea what's going on here?" she asked. 

"Shawn was assaulted earlier tonight, apparently someone's looking for something he may or may not have," Henry said. 

"I drew you a picture of him," Shawn said reluctantly, handing the notepad to Juliet. 

Juliet glanced over the picture. Shawn had drawn him as a caricature—with an oversized head, and a tiny little body on skies, but it was close enough. The detail in the face, at least, was amazing. Juliet was pretty sure she could crop out the body and the ski resort before passing them out. "Thanks, Shawn, this is really good," she said. "But why didn't you come to me earlier about this?" 

"But, Jules," Shawn protested. "I only just found the apartment like this. I called you right away." 

"I meant about the assault, Shawn," Juliet said patiently. "This is very serious." 

"You don't have to tell me," Shawn said. "Eugene is in pieces back there. I'm going to have to live with that sight the rest of my life." 

"Eugene?" Juliet asked, her eyes going to Henry. 

"Don't ask," Henry snapped. 

"What is going on here?" Vick demanded, as she pushed past Buzz. "Mr. Spencer?" 

"Yes?" Henry and Shawn answered at once, before turning to glare at each other. 

Vick sighed, sensing a long night ahead, before turning to her detective instead. "O'Hara, what's going on here?" 

"Shawn was assaulted earlier tonight by this man," Juliet stated, holding up the caricature.

"Was he wearing the skis?" Vick asked snappishly. 

Juliet looked back at the picture with a frown. "I don't think so, Shawn may have taken some liberties." 

"Sketch artists usually make such dull drawings," Shawn said in his defense. "I was trying to add a sense of fun." 

"There's nothing fun about this," Vick said, turning with hands on her hips to meet Shawn's eyes. "Who is he?" 

"I'm sensing he has anger issues," Shawn said, wiggling the fingers of his right hand beside his temple. "And he goes by a truly horrible nickname. One—one…Obi Won…Wonder. He may also be holding a grudge against Panda bears, or other furry animals, and—no, sorry, that's it." 

"That's it?" Vick repeated skeptically. "You have no other ideas why you might be a target for this man? He didn't say anything to you?" 

"I'm not sure what you mean," Shawn said. "Could you provide me with an example?" 

"Answer the damn question, Shawn," Henry snapped, his patience obviously nearing its end. 

"No," Shawn said, but he was looking at his father. "He didn't. I don't know what he wants. Maybe he was here for Lassie. What cases has he been working? Anything I should know about?" 

Vick ignored him, turning to Buzz and Juliet. "I want a patrol car to stay here all night, if Spencer leaves, follow him." 

"He's not staying here," Henry said. "He's coming home with me." 

"Since when?" Shawn protested. 

"Since someone broke in here and tore your place apart, Shawn," Henry snapped. 

"There's no sign of forced entry," Juliet added. 

"That would be because they used his hide-a-key," Henry said. "Another reason he's coming home with me. They've still got it." 

Vick nodded in approval. "Sounds good," she said. "Buzz, I want you on the first shift. Follow them back to Mr. Spencer's and stay the night. We'll get someone to relieve you sometime tomorrow morning." 

"Yes, Chief," Buzz said at once.

"O'Hara," Vick said. "I want you to get a forensic team in here. Have them search this place top to bottom. I want to know who this guy is and what he was after." 

Shawn raised a hand. "Do I get a say in any of this?" he asked. 

"No," they all told him at once. 

"Just checking," he said, and with a sigh lowered his hand.

* * * * *

Vick and Juliet had allowed Shawn to pack a single change of clothes, before banishing him from his own apartment. Shawn let himself be pushed out only because he didn't really want to stay and look at the ruin. He could still close his eyes and picture everything where it was supposed to be. Luckily Shawn didn't really have any valuables aside from the pocket watch his father had bought him four months after his birthday—and he kept that with him. 

His father spent most of the ride to the house getting his need to lecture out of his system, and most of the walk to the front door, but Shawn had successfully tuned him out, focusing instead on the case. It was time to start coming at this with his full focus—no more searching for bits of information between dinner dates. This thing was personal now. 

"Lassiter certainly picked a hell of a time to head off," Henry said, as he closed and bolted the door behind them. "The one time your relationship with him might come in useful." 

"This may come as a surprise," Shawn said, "but when I started a relationship with Lassiter, 'useful' actually didn't enter into it. It's not like I'm dating him to get out of speeding tickets. That's what you're for." 

"Yeah, well, like it or not, you're in over your head," Henry said. "This is the kind of case for the police, Shawn. I want you to stay out of it." 

"It's like you don't know me at all," Shawn said, as he pulled back the curtain to frown at the patrol car across the street. 

"I mean it, Shawn," Henry snapped. "This isn't one of your little Psych cases, where someone's cheating on someone or you have to do an 'exorcism.'" 

"Priests do exorcisms," Shawn said, turning back around. "I merely commune with the spirits, and request politely that they move on." 

"My point is," Henry interrupted sharply, "this time, the client is you." 

"I don't think I can be my own client," Shawn said. "I don't have any money to pay myself, and I don't come cheap." 

"So you're not going to work this case?" Henry asked suspiciously. 

"No, I'm just not taking myself on as a client," Shawn said. "I've already got a client. Although I have my doubts he can pay me either, at least with legal tender. I've really got to stop working pro bono." 

"What client, Shawn?" Henry snapped. "You didn't say anything about a case." 

"It's Client-Psychic Detective privileged information," Shawn said. 

"There's no such thing," Henry said. 

"Of course there is," Shawn said. "I invented it just now, and I feel very strongly about it."

"If you know more about this than you're telling, then you had better come clean right now," Henry said firmly. "You think you're the only one in danger here? What about Gus, or that girl detective? I've seen a lot of break-ins, and they always say a lot about the perpetrator. Whoever went through your apartment was single-minded and ruthless, they're not going to stop at anything to get what they're looking for." 

"They're not going to go after Gus, I never give out his real name. And girl detective? Who do you think she is, Nancy Drew?" Shawn asked. "Juliet can take care of herself." 

"Look, all I'm saying is, you need to keep your head down," Henry said. 

Shawn froze, replaying the statement through his mind. He pictured Juan, saying the same thing, and the covered words on the right side of his shirt. Ine and Tion. A company, almost definitely. The first word would be almost impossible to guess out of thin air, but the second was likely the branch of work they were dealing with. 

"Right," Shawn said, moving through the kitchen to the living room, "keep my head down." 

"I'll just cook us some dinner, shall I?" Henry yelled after him. 

Shawn ignored him, coming to a stop in front of his dad's ancient PC. "Corrections, communications, transportation, education, animation, mutation, fornication?" Shawn asked himself, pressing his eyes shut. He went back to that bathroom, and ran his eyes over Juan again. He was a thug with a thin veneer of someone clean cut, the neatly pressed blue polo shirt indicated he might be a bit higher up—but still, there was plaster dust on his boots. Plaster dust. "Construction!" 

Something-Ine Construction, and Juan was probably a foreman at least, judging from the nice company shirt. So what would a legitimate construction foreman be doing harassing innocent psychics in public restrooms? It didn't make any sense. 

It reminded him of the Dah-Ling case the year before, when he found out that Cyril used to work in construction part-time. Criminals working construction, was that common? Shawn didn't think so, not from any stereotype he had ever heard. Which meant they were connected. 

Shawn sat at the computer and ran a search, but nothing came up. He'd need to find out the rest of the 'ine' before that lead him anywhere. Instead, Shawn started scanning through articles on the old Dah-Ling Store-It-Yourself murder and the theft at High-Land Jewelers, looking for any reference to Cyril Riner and his work in construction. 

He didn't find any link, but there was an interesting article on the High-Land Jewelers:

> Trouble in High-Land, by Betty Bertworth. 

> The High-Land Jewelers, operated by brothers Jeremy and Deacon Meyers and owned by Maximilian Unlimited, seem to be having a run of bad luck. In May of 2007 the brothers made headlines when $700,000.00 dollars were stolen from one of their safes. Yesterday, on June 5th, 2009, the brothers had another robbery, and this time they may not recover. $230,000.00 worth of diamonds went missing from their vault once again, and the police have no leads.   
> "We're going to have to shut down," Deacon Meyers stated. "It's a shame. We really loved this place. We're all about family here. My brother and I—

"Family?" Shawn whispered in disbelief. No legitimate small family business would have drawn the business of Max Diaz. Which only brought up more questions. It had always bothered Shawn that the diamonds had been taken to High-Land Jewelers to be listed for the experimental 'diamond fingerprinting.' Max Diaz was by all accounts very savvy when it came to his business—why would he make such an obvious mistake? Even small time crooks knew better than to insure stolen goods. 

Shawn frowned, ignoring his father cursing in the kitchen over the state of his potatoes, and ran a search for Max Diaz. It was about time he figured out what he had been sent to prison for in the first place.

> Three Strikes, He's Out, by Penny Sikes. 

> Max Diaz, who recently moved to Santa Barbara, has by all accounts been running a legitimate business ever since. So why was he sentenced to 25 – to Life in his trial on July 19th, 2007? The charge was possessing stolen goods. "He had no idea that they were stolen," said Nathan Rhodes, Diaz's lawyer. "This whole thing is a set up start to finish." Diaz, who had previous charges for assault and extortion, ten years previous, was sentenced to the full extent of the Three Strikes Law.   
> "He's exactly where he needs to be," Det. Carlton Lassiter, of the SBPD, told sources. "We have the law for a reason. I think if anything we're being generous. It should be the One Strike Law." Despite the confidence of the Santa Barbara police department, Diaz doesn't seem worried. Rhodes has stated they have already begun an appeal. "It was a witch hunt, and it's never going to stick," Rhodes stated. "He'll be out in two years, if not sooner—

Shawn started printing the articles and a couple of photos. He watched the printer as it printed at about a centimeter per minute, before giving up and turning back to the computer. He loved technology as much as the next guy—unless the next guy was Gus, and it usually was—but it was no way to investigate. Shawn needed to see people, and touch things. 

Shawn pushed away from the computer in irritation and went back to the window, but Buzz was still in the car across the street. Shawn wondered briefly if Gus would be up for a car chase, but didn't think chances were good. 

Ace of Base's _Don't Turn Around_ started blaring from his back pocket; _just walk away, it's tearing me apart that you're leaving, I'm letting you go, but I won't let you know…_. Shawn reached back and grabbed his phone. It was Lassiter. Shawn had gone through and changed his ring tone as he waited for his father to come pick him up. 

Shawn hit 'Decline' and the music stopped. 

Henry leaned in the kitchen doorway, and crossed his arms. "You're not going to take that?" 

Shawn looked up. Henry's shirt was dusted with flour, and he was holding a mixing spoon. "You look like Patrick Stewart," Shawn said "But you behave like Martha Stewart." 

Henry's response was stalled by the death knell of the printer, as it puffed out its last sheet of paper like it was taking its last breath. Shawn rushed to it, grabbing everything up and holding it against his chest. Henry was too preoccupied with the steam coming from the printer as he unplugged it to notice. "What the hell did you do?" 

"Dad, that's the same computer you had when I lived here! And nobody has the printers with the little holes along the sides of the paper anymore…the…what are they called? Is anyone who remembers even still alive?" He folded everything up and stuck it down his jeans pocket, before leaning over his father's shoulder to get a better look. 

"It's Dot Matrix, Shawn, and it worked fine until you got at it," Henry said. He stood back and then pressed the heel of the hand holding the spoon against his forehead. "Okay. It's fine, I probably do need a new one anyway. Why don't you just go get washed up for dinner?" 

"Get washed up for dinner?" Shawn repeated slowly, sensing some kind of trap. "You've been cooking, and now you want me to wash up? Why do I feel like mom's back? You know, if she ever did any of those things. Or if we lived in a 1950's sitcom." 

"I live alone," Henry said. "It doesn't hurt to know how to make a good home cooked meal. So I've taken a few classes, so what?" 

"Wait, hold on," Shawn said. "You're taking cooking classes? This is obviously more advanced than I'd feared. Please tell me you're only doing it to pick up women." He held up a finger. "No, never mind, that's worse." 

"Hey, if you'd rather order some take-out, kiddo, be my guest," Henry said. 

Shawn leaned to the side to peer into the kitchen, noticing the battered chicken sitting in a bowl on the table beside a plate of twice-baked potatoes covered with chives. "I'm sorry for everything I ever said about your Martha Stewart tendencies," he said, making a beeline for the table. 

Henry followed him in. "You and Lassiter should come over more often," he said, as he opened the cupboards to grab a couple of plates. "You're welcome any time. Well, most of the time. Sometimes. You should call first." 

"When have I ever called first?" Shawn asked. "If I'm going to the trouble to call you, I'm not going to then come all the way over here." 

Ace of Base started playing again, and Henry pursed his lips. "Speaking of phone calls. You planning on answering that any time tonight?" he demanded. 

"No," Shawn said, sitting down. "I like this song." 

"Let me tell you how cops work, we look out for our own. I guarantee you someone's already filled Lassiter in on what happened to you," Henry snapped. He dropped a plate in front of Shawn and then sat down. "Do the guy a favor and let him know you're alright." 

"If he wants to know I'm alright, he can leave his pretend conference and come back to Santa Barbara," Shawn said. 

"You're being childish," Henry snapped. "You think I ever ignored a phone call from your mother, even if we were fighting? No. Because it doesn't matter how bad it is, Shawn, ignoring it makes it worse." 

"I disagree," Shawn said. "I ignored you for years and now we're as close as we've been since I was nine years old. And you're cooking me dinner. I would say that's an improvement." 

"You're my kid, I have to put up with you," Henry said. "You think Lassiter's going to stick around if you keep this up?" 

"I'm not talking about this with you," Shawn said, grabbing a chicken leg. "Anyway, Lassiter can wait. I have more pressing matters to deal with." 

"And what's that?" Henry asked. "Your 'case'?" 

"That's amazing how you do that," Shawn said. "I could actually hear the parenthesis." 

"Haven't you learned anything these last few years?" Henry demanded. "How many times have you nearly gotten yourself killed by rushing in somewhere? You're not a cop, Shawn. And you know what? I'm finally okay with that. I am. I'm glad you're not. So stop this, you don't have anything to prove." 

"This isn't about proving anything, and it's not about you," Shawn said. "I'm good at this."

"You're good at a lot of things, Shawn," Henry said. "What about when you wanted to be a Train conductor? Or a Blue Angel?" 

"I never wanted to be a Blue Angel," Shawn said. "That was your dream. I wanted to be a Charlie's Angel, and I was six. I've had a lot of jobs since then, and I learned something from all of them. But do you know what I told Gus when I first started this one? I told him I'd found the last job either of us would ever need. And I meant it."

"And Lassiter's okay with your little ruse?" Henry asked. 

"Lassiter respects what I can do, if not the way I do it," Shawn said. "Which is more than can be said of you." 

"You want the truth, Shawn?" Henry demanded. "I'm proud of you and the things you've done, but it scares the hell out of me, because you don't ever stop and think. You never see the whole picture. You figure out one part of it and go rushing in to figure out the rest and one of these times it's going to get you killed. You're going to ask someone the wrong question, or you're going to show up somewhere at the wrong time." 

"Did you just say you're proud of me?" Shawn asked, looking stunned. "Oh my god. You did. You said you were proud of me. You love me! You really love me!" 

Henry rested his head in his hands. "Is that all you got from that?" he asked. 

"You said something else?" Shawn asked. 

"Alright, look," Henry said, looking back up. "If you don't listen to anything else, listen to this. If things are getting too complicated then simplify them. Go back to basics. Think about how you got together in the first place. You know as well as anyone, you hit a roadblock, you go back to the beginning and start again." 

Shawn froze with the chicken leg half to his mouth. The beginning, of course. During the case that had started this whole thing, everything kept leading back to the Dah-Ling Store-It-Yourself. It was abandoned now and boarded up, but the Hottie Tottie Tavern was still around—and that's where Cyril had been working construction before he'd been arrested. 

"That's it!" Shawn shouted, jumping to his feet. "Dad, you're absolutely right. I need to revisit where this all started." 

"What are you talking about?" Henry asked suspiciously. "I meant you and Lassiter. Are you still thinking about some damn case?" 

Shawn grabbed the chicken leg, and biting off half of it in one bite. "Sorry, can't stay," he said, around the chicken. "I've got to go see a girl about a thing." 

"You're under watch, have you forgotten?" Henry demanded, as he got to his feet. 

Shawn was already in the living room, grabbing his backpack and heading for the stairs. "That's okay," he called. "Buzz can come!" 

Henry resisted the urge to kick the wall, and ran a hand over the top of his head. He knew he couldn't force Shawn to stay here—he never could—but at least he would have to deal with the police escort outside. The uniformed cop looked inexperienced but he was huge. He should be able to keep Shawn out of trouble. 

Who was he kidding? Henry, Lassiter and Gus couldn't even keep Shawn out of trouble, with all three of them on the job. Henry opened his desk drawer and grabbed a small bottle of pepper spray. At the least, he could give Shawn something to defend himself with. 

Shawn came rushing back down the stairs a moment later. He'd traded out Gus' suit jacket and shirt for a green t-shirt and a dark blue hooded jacket. He had his grey backpack over one shoulder and it reminded Henry of years ago. He fought the memories back and stepped forward. 

"Shawn!" he yelled, catching his attention before he made for the front door. "I want you to take this. You see that guy again, you spray him right in the face." 

Shawn hesitantly took the pepper spray, before tossing it back to Henry. "I couldn't possibly take this to a strip club," he said. "All the other guys would make fun of me."

"Strip club?" Henry demanded, but Shawn was already heading for the door. "Shawn! Shawn!" 

He caught him by the backpack, deftly sticking the pepper spray inside as he tugged Shawn back a step. "You stay with that officer, and be careful," he snapped. 

Shawn looked bemused by his concern. "Okay," he said, spinning in place as he tried to disentangle Henry's fingers from his backpack. "Can you let me go?" 

Henry let him go, holding up his hands in resignation. He waited until he saw Shawn reach the police car before kicking the door shut in frustration. When Lassiter got back, he was going to have a lot to answer for.

* * * * *

"Buzz!" Shawn greeted brightly, as he dropped into the passenger seat beside him. He pushed his backpack down by his feet and then reached for the seatbelt. 

"Uh…hi, Shawn," Buzz said cautiously. "What are you doing?" 

"Well, you're supposed to be watching me, right?" Shawn asked. "So I figured I would make it easy on you. I need to go see Gus." 

"You want me to drive you?" Buzz asked. 

"That would be awesome," Shawn said. "Gus lives kind of far away, I hope that's not a problem. I can tell you how to get there." 

"But—" 

"I'd have my dad take me but you know how he is," Shawn said. "And I'd go by myself, but you're supposed to follow me anyway, right? So this seemed like the best solution for all involved. You're going to want turn left at the end of this street, then turn on Crete and get onto the 101." He waited a moment, and Buzz made no move to pull out. "Whenever you're ready." 

"Maybe I should check with the Chief," Buzz said. 

"I was there when she gave you this assignment," Shawn said. "She didn't say anything about me having to stay here, just that you had to stay with me." 

"I guess," Buzz said. 

"It'll be fun, Buzz!" Shawn promised. "Road trip! It's like we're partners. Butch and Sundance." 

"They were criminals!" Buzz protested. 

"Riggs and Murtaugh?" Shawn tried. 

"Only if I can be Murtaugh," Buzz said. 

"You've got it, buddy," Shawn said. "Just, ah, don't tell Gus. He's usually Murtaugh. For some reason, I'm always Riggs. Must be because we both have such awesome hair." 

Buzz followed Shawn's directions to the highway, and frowned when ten minutes later they passed a sigh that read: 10 miles to Summerland. "Just where does Gus live, exactly?" Buzz asked. "I thought he was in Santa Barbara." 

"He was evicted," Shawn said. "It was really sad. I offered to let him live with me, but he has too much pride." 

"I thought business was good?" Buzz asked. 

"Oh, sure, it's great," Shawn said. "But he has a gambling problem. Online poker." 

"Isn't that illegal?" Buzz demanded. "To play online poker for real money?" 

"He doesn't do it for money! For shame, thinking so little of him," Shawn said. "He just keeps missing work because he stays home to play it."

"Oh," Buzz said, frowning again as Shawn motioned for him to take the next exit and turn off onto a dirt road. He parked in front of a neon-hued shack, beside a couple of Harley Davidsons. Buzz leaned forward to look out the window, and saw the flashing pink and blue sign bolted to the top: Hottie Tottie Tavern. "Gus lives here?" 

"Don't be ridiculous, Buzz, this is a strip club," Shawn said. "He rents the attic space. It's a converted loft. But don't tell anyone, okay? He's a little sensitive about it. In fact, it's probably best that you just stay here." 

Buzz reached out and grabbed Shawn's wrist before he could open the door. "You're not going in there alone, Shawn," he said firmly. "And I can't go in there like this. I'm a cop."

Shawn sighed. "I was afraid you would say that," he said, digging into his backpack, and pulling out one of his father's Hawaiian shirts. "But don't worry, I brought you a disguise. No one will notice you in this shirt, Buzz, because the pattern will blind them!" 

Buzz stared at the shirt for a moment before snatching it from Shawn's hands. "We're going in, seeing Gus, and then we're going back to your father's," he said firmly. 

Shawn almost felt bad about misleading Buzz; it was never fun being that easily believed. It was so much more entertaining to lie to Lassiter, who could catch him out every single time. "Right," he agreed. "I'll go first, you follow." 

Shawn waited until Buzz was too tangled up in Henry's shirt to grab him, and pushed out of the car to put some distance between him and it. He wasn't going to get anyone to talk to him if they thought he was a cop. Or with someone wearing the shirt he'd just given to Buzz. 

The Hottie Tottie Tavern hadn't changed much from his last visit. Shawn sidestepped a pair of skeevy looking businessmen, and moved closer to the stage. He wished Gus were here—not actually living here, of course, but here working the case with him. Buzz came barreling in behind him, drawing more than a few glances, and wasn't near as a good of a wingman. Shawn suspected it was the shirt more than it was his height or the shiny black police issue shoes. He sighed as Buzz headed straight for him. 

"Don't do that, Shawn," Buzz said, going for stern. It was kind of hard to take seriously on him, especially the way he was looking around like he'd just wandered into a war zone. "Francie would not approve of this." 

"Let me give you a little relationship advice that has worked wonders for me," Shawn said. "If you're doing something your significant other would not approve of, do not tell them about it. Or lie about it. Whichever applies." 

"Shawn," Buzz said disapprovingly. He looked around for a moment, before catching sight of a scantily clad stripper and quickly returning his gaze to Shawn. "Can we just find Gus and get out of here? Or maybe go up to the loft?" 

"Yeah, um," Shawn paused. "Let me just call him and have him come down." He pulled out his phone and dialed Gus. "Gus! Are you still mad about the dinner thing? Because if it makes you feel better it was horrible." 

"Shawn!" Gus yelled. "Where are you? I've been calling you all night." 

"I turned off my phone for awhile," Shawn said. "Even I can only take so much of Ace of Base." 

"Where are you?" Gus demanded again. 

"I've just been cruising around in a cruiser. Unlike you, Buzz doesn't mind driving me places," Shawn said. 

"Isn't he home?" Buzz asked. 

"Oh, right," Shawn said. "Yeah, Gus, we're downstairs. Want to come down?" 

"What are you and Buzz doing in Mrs. Blaser's apartment, Shawn?" 

"We're at the Hottie Tottie Tavern," Shawn whispered, turning away. "Are you coming or what?" 

"Stay in sight, Shawn!" Buzz called. 

"It's cool, Murtaugh!" Shawn shouted back at him, covering the cell phone. 

"You let him be Murtaugh?" Gus demanded, and Shawn realized he was covering the wrong speaker. "Who the hell am I supposed to be? Leo Getz? Because I'm not Leo, Shawn. Buzz is Leo." 

"What is your problem with Buzz?" Shawn asked. "You've been holding a grudge ever since I took him to my big reveal at the Dah-Ling Store-It-Yourself instead of you." 

"Whatever, Shawn, I don't have a problem with him," Gus said. 

"You totally do! You're acting more jealous than you did with the little boy cat," Shawn said. 

"Which you gave to Buzz," Gus snapped. 

"What, you're gonna pretend like you wanted the cat now? You hated that cat," Shawn said. "You don't even spend time with Mrs. Pickles as it is." 

"There is no Mrs. Pickles, Shawn!" Gus shouted. "Mrs. Pickles is just a fragment of your scary mind." 

"I can't do this with you now. Amelia just came on stage and I've got to be there for moral support. Although I'm not sure if I can call my support moral in this context—immoral support, maybe?" 

"Shawn!" Gus snapped. "Don't you dare hang up on me! If you do, I swear, I'll—" 

Shawn hung up the call. "He's not home," he told Buzz. "I guess I should have called first. Henry was just telling me earlier today that sometimes people did that. I thought it sounded ridiculous, but I guess it would avoid situations like this." 

"So we can leave?" Buzz asked in relief. 

"Well," Shawn said, drawing the word out as a number of green, orange, and pink lights flashed on, pointed towards the stage. "We are already here, so I wouldn't want to leave without saying hello to Houston." 

"Houston?" Buzz asked. 

Shawn tilted his head towards the stage. "Leggy brunette, wearing the shreds of Jane's costume from Tarzan. Can't miss her." 

Buzz looked up and immediately covered his eyes. "I can't be here, Shawn." 

"Just keep your eyes on your shirt. Although maybe not directly, it's possible it has powers of hypnosis," Shawn said. "I won't be long, but I've got to talk to her." 

"I think she's busy," Buzz said, squinting through his fingers to try and see Shawn. "And does Lassiter know about her?" 

"Please, we've had many a double date with Amelia and her boyfriend Spud," Shawn said. "Well, okay, it was only the one date. But that was more to do with Spud than Amelia. Amelia is lovely." 

The lovely Amelia was currently running a hand down her thigh to one leather button boot, reaching to undo the top button and slip it off. As she leaned over she spotted Shawn, and he gave a little a finger wave. 

"Shawn!" she said, grinning brightly. She stopped with only one button undone, moving to sit on the stage and push herself into his arms. "It's so good to see you!" 

"Hey!" Someone shouted from the crowd. "Get back on the stage!" 

"Take it off!" someone else screamed. 

"Your fans are getting restless," Shawn said, looking behind him, though Amelia still had him snared. 

"Oh, they'll get over it," Amelia said. "I always leave them wanting more."

"Hey, back off!" Buzz demanded, as a man made a move towards Shawn and Amelia.

"Who the hell are you?" the man asked. He was wearing a camo jacket and boots, his eyes almost hidden by a baseball cap. "I paid good money to get in here. She owes me a show." 

Amelia released Shawn from the hug, only to grab his hand. "Let's go somewhere more private," she said, pulling him towards a door at the back. "We can't talk here." 

"Aren't you going to be in trouble?" Shawn asked, glancing back at the chaos behind them. Buzz was about eight inches taller than the tallest member of the mob, so Shawn figured he would be fine. 

"Montana can pick up the slack," she said, pulling him into the dressing room. She sat him down and crossed her arms. "Okay. So what are you doing here, doll? Don't tell me it's for the show." 

"I'll have you know I'd watch your show any day of the week," Shawn said. "Except maybe Thursdays. That's when _Friends_ is on." 

"Darling, get to the point," Amelia said. "Is that guy out there another kidnapper? Should I be worried about you?" 

Shawn gave a half grin. "Of course not," he said. "I haven't been kidnapped in almost a year." 

"Glad to hear it," Amelia said. "Now tell me why you're here." 

"Well, Houston, we've got a problem," Shawn said. 

Amelia frowned. "What's wrong? Is Cyril back?" she asked. 

"Not exactly," Shawn said, pausing when the door behind them flew open and Buzz came stumbling in, pushing the door shut again behind him and glaring at Shawn. Shawn was pretty sure that was Buzz's first attempt at a glare ever, but it was surprisingly decent. 

"We're leaving, now, Shawn," he said. 

"Buzz, you're being rude," Shawn said. "Amelia, this is Buzz. Buzz, this is Amelia." 

Amelia waved, and one of the straps of her bikini-style top gave out and fell down her arm. Buzz closed his eyes, but offered a small wave. "Nice to meet you," he said. "But we have to be leaving." 

"I'm not going anywhere," Shawn said. "In case you're forgetting I never agreed to having a bodyguard." 

Buzz frowned and quickly unbuttoned the shirt. "Fine," he said, before holding out the shirt to Amelia. "Ma'am, if you wouldn't mind?" 

Amelia's eyes widened as she saw the uniform, and she looked back at Shawn. "Is he for real?" she asked. 

"I've never been able to answer that question to my satisfaction," Shawn told her. "But I've found it's best to humor him." 

Amelia took the shirt and pulled it on, wrapping it around her like a robe. It came down about to mid thigh, leaving only a couple of inches of skin before the top of her boots. "Okay, so what's this about, Shawn?" 

Shawn gently took her arm and pulled her a few feet away from Buzz. "I need some information," he told her. 

"I'm not a snitch, Shawn," Amelia told him. "I love you to pieces, really I do, but I know what you've got going on with the police. I knew even before there was one standing there watching us from the corner, and I—" 

"He's got his eyes covered, and it's just a simple question," Shawn said. "You can answer it or not. I was just wondering if you knew the name of the construction company that did the work at the Tavern?" 

"Are you kidding, doll?" Amelia asked. "Sunshine Construction, of course. But there's a reason this place didn't ever get done up right." 

"What's that?" Shawn asked. 

"Let's just say building stuff's not exactly their specialty," Amelia said. 

"Of course not," Shawn said, rubbing a hand down his eyes. "Cause the business is a front." 

"Honey, I thought you knew. It's all down to the same guy, your Cyril knew it, I thought you did too. The Tavern, Sunshine Construction, it's all owned by Max Diaz." 

"Maximilian Unlimited?" Shawn guessed. 

"Yeah, I think I've heard that before. Shawn, I want you to listen to me, okay? Whatever you're into, get out and get out quick. Diaz has a habit of leaving bodies behind, not that anyone ever finds them." 

"Why does everyone keep warning me off this case?" Shawn asked. "I thought Juliet was Nancy Drew, but maybe I'm Nancy Drew. I'd rather be a Hardy Boy, at least, even if it had to be Frank."

"I don't know anything about that, all I know is this guy is bad news, okay?" Amelia said, crossing her arms over the hideous shirt. "And it doesn't matter at all that he's in prison. He's got half a dozen enforcers just here in Santa Barbara." 

"Just in Santa Barbara?" Shawn repeated. "That's right. He only moved here a few years before he went to prison, right? Before he was—he was—" 

"From New York, yeah," Amelia finished. "Most of his businesses are still there. All he has here are the fronts, and this place. Rumor had it things were getting too hot in New York. He came here to lay low for awhile." 

"It doesn't look like things went to plan," Shawn said, a hundred things clicking into place within his mind—this was all leading back to New York. 

"Yeah, it was all very quiet when it first happened, I didn't have any idea who was running this place," Amelia said. "But once they realized Cyril had ripped Diaz off? The rumors were flying everywhere." 

"Maybe you should think about getting a job somewhere safer," Shawn suggested. "Like _Nudes, Nudes, Nudes_." 

Amelia smiled faintly. "Please, I have the manager wrapped around my little finger here, I can do whatever I want," she said. "Anyway, Diaz stays out of this place. Sometimes we see his right-hand man, but that's pretty rare, and he doesn't cause trouble." 

"Juan León?" Shawn guessed. 

"Yeah, think that's him," she said. "Everyone just calls him One Hit." 

Behind them, Buzz's phone rung and he answered it promptly. "Officer McNab," he said. "Oh. Uh. Hi. No. Yes. Sir. I didn't. But I—no, yes. Kind of." 

Shawn frowned as Buzz went nearly white, his eyes growing larger by the second. "I've got a bad feeling about this," Shawn said. 

"Uh, it's for you," Buzz said, holding the phone out to Shawn like he was afraid it was going to bite him. 

Shawn knew of only two people that could turn Buzz that color—Chief Vick, and Lassiter, neither of whom he particularly wanted to speak to. But Henry was occasionally correct, and he couldn't put this off forever. "Shawn Spencer, psychic detective," he answered. "Who am I speaking to?" 

"You know damn well," Lassiter snapped. "Are you okay?" 

"I'm fine. Just drowning my sorrows with Buzz," Shawn said. "My boyfriend ran out on me. In the middle of a lovingly planned anniversary dinner, no less." 

"Okay, let's not rewrite history. You ran out on me, and you won that dinner for free. Anyway, it's not our anniversary," Lassiter said. "Where are you?" 

"I don't have time for this," Shawn said. "I'm meeting Gus for our weekly game of Bingo, so you can rest easy. I'm not having any fun." 

"I know that's not where you are," Lassiter snapped. "Look, I'm going to make this up to you, I promise, but right now there's more at stake than hurt feelings. I need you to tell me where you are." 

"Well, I'll tell you where I'm not," Shawn said. "A conference in New York. How about you?"

"Is that Detective Lassiter?" Amelia asked, leaning forward. 

"Who is that?" Lassiter demanded.

"It's only Amelia," Shawn said. "She says hi."

"Damn it, Shawn," Lassiter snapped. "I knew it! I knew you went there. I want you to tell me exactly what you know. From the beginning." 

"Okay," Shawn said. "Well, it all started when I was about 14 months old and I learned to say 'yes' and 'Magnum.'" 

"Put Buzz back on the phone," Lassiter snapped.

Shawn rolled his eyes, but tossed the phone back to Buzz. "Sir," Buzz said. "Yes. No. I will. No. Okay. Yes." 

"This could take awhile," Shawn said, turning back to Amelia. "Anything else I should know?" 

"I think I've already told you more than I should," Amelia said. "But what about you? You never said why you were asking, and what's with you and Lassiter?" 

"Cyril's in trouble," Shawn said. "I think I'm finally just getting an idea of how much. Me and Lassie will be fine, though. Just as soon as I can solve his case." 

"Shawn!" Buzz said, coming up behind him and grabbing his arm. "We're leaving, now." 

Shawn looked up at him. "What's wrong?" 

"I'm under orders to get you home," Buzz said apologetically. "Sorry, ma'am. We can't stay." 

"Hey, Buzz, wait," Shawn protested, trying to pull loose. 

Amelia grabbed Shawn's other arm, and looked ready to take Buzz on. Shawn thought her chances were good—if only because Buzz would never hit a girl. "Let him go, Sasquatch! He's a free citizen! You can't do a thing without cause." 

"It's okay, Amelia," Shawn said, pulling her hand off his arm and giving it a squeeze. "Just be careful, okay? I'm not sure how long this place is going to be standing." 

"Don't worry about me, doll," Amelia said. "I always land on my feet." 

Buzz pulled him out the door, receiving more than a few glares—but everyone looked quickly away when they noticed Buzz's uniform. Shawn just hoped his dad wasn't going to want that shirt back.


	4. 4

Henry opened the door. Shawn smelled like cigarette smoke and Buzz was looming behind him, one hand on his back. "Why does this bring back memories?" Henry asked dryly. "Thanks, Officer."

"Oh, please," Shawn said, as he stepped around him into the house. Buzz smiled uncertainly and then quickly took off towards his car. "The only cop that ever dragged me home was you. No one else ever caught me." 

"Until Lassiter," Henry said, closing the door. 

Shawn snorted. "Yeah, but unlike you, Lassie never turned me in," he said. 

"I've always thought that was a flaw in his character," Henry said. "So, what did you learn?" 

"Don't take Buzz to a strip club," Shawn said. "It's a buzz kill. Pun both entirely intended, and awesome." 

"About the case, Shawn," Henry snapped. 

"What case would that be?" Shawn asked. "The case of my disappearing dirty laundry? Solved. Someone had put it all in the hamper. I suspect Lassiter, or house elves. Or perhaps you're referring to the case of why you keep receiving _Teen Vogue_? Also solved. It was me. I bought you a years subscription." 

"I knew that was you," Henry snapped, before taking a deep breath and refusing to let Shawn distract him. "I'm talking about your apartment, Shawn." 

"I don't have cases at my apartment," Shawn said. "Maybe some boxes, a basket or two, but no cases." 

"I can't do this with you now," Henry snapped. "I'm going to bed." 

"You can't—hey, that's my line!" Shawn shouted after him. 

"Don't flatter yourself, kid," Henry called back. "I've been saying that since you were born."

"Yeah? Well—so have I!" Shawn yelled. He glanced around for the living room for a moment before leaning against the front door and looking out the peep hole. Buzz was still across the street, and from the hand motions Shawn could make out, he was either attempting to dance or his left hand had challenged his right to rock, paper, scissors. 

"Man," he said, following his father up the stairs and then going into his old room. Shawn gently closed the door behind him and then sat on his bed. For all the times Henry had found a box of his stuff somewhere and decided there was an urgent need to get rid of it, his room was strangely untouched. It looked exactly the way it had the day Shawn left it when he was seventeen, and it was eerie to be inside of it. 

Shawn got to his feet restlessly, and frowned at one wall. It was covered in movie posters, mostly John Hughes films. Shawn reached out and gently pulled them down, careful not to rip them. He went to his desk and pulled out a black marker and some tape and then turned back to the now blank wall. 

He straightened out the folded up print-outs from his dad's computer and taped a black and white picture of Max Diaz right where the wall meet the ceiling, before standing back. He pulled the cap of his pen with his teeth and then leaned forward, scribbling 'Max' beneath the picture before branching off in two directions—one leading to Sunshine Construction, and the other to Maximilian Unlimited. 

Beneath Sunshine Construction, he taped up another sketch of Juan and a picture of Cyril, branching off from Cyril to Carter and Fred. Under Maximilian Unlimited, he branched off to the Hottie Tottie Tavern and High-Land Jewelers. 

It was all connected somehow, but Shawn had a feeling he was missing half the chart. He scanned through the articles he had printed, but there was no mention in any of them of New York. Shawn tried to channel Gus and pulled out his phone and opened Safari to do a search for 'Max Diaz' and 'New York,' but it turned out that 'Max Diaz' was quite a common name and lots of people lived in New York. 

If only Lassiter would cooperate and tell him what was going on, he might solve this all a lot quicker. But right now, he had about as much chance of getting the Juan Hit Wonder to talk to him as Lassiter. Actually, Shawn decided, as returned his attention to his phone, his chances were probably better with Juan.

"Sunshine Construction," said a bright female voice. "How may I direct your call?" 

"Hello, can I please speak to Juan León," Shawn asked politely. "Tell him Shawn Spencer needs to talk to him. That's Spencer. S-P-E-N-C-E-R." 

"One moment please," she said. "I will see if he is available." 

Shawn turned back to the wall as the hold music started up, but focused his attention back on the phone when he heard a click indicating he was being transferred. 

"I checked for that safety deposit box, and there wasn’t one," Juan snapped. Juan obviously wasn't one to waste time with pleasantries. 

"Wow," Shawn said. "That was really quick. I thought that would take you a week to figure out, at least." 

"You realize I'm going to have to kill you now?" Juan asked. 

"I wouldn't say you have to," Shawn said. "We could get you into some anger management classes, try that out. The trick is verbal communication. I'm sorry I lied to you. Does that make you feel better?" 

"I'm going to tear you apart," Juan snapped. "One piece at a time until you tell me what I want to know." 

"You first," Shawn said. "Not the dismemberment, because I’m squeamish, but I want the truth—why do you think I have the diamonds? Because I don't, by the way, if you were wondering. And why do you want them so badly? Diaz lost them years ago and didn't seem too concerned." 

"I don't think you understand how this works," Juan said. "I don't answer your questions, you answer mine. And you had better start soon if you're fond of your limbs." 

"You leave my Sycamores out of it," Shawn demanded. 

"Just remember, I know where you live, psychic," Juan said. 

"And I know what you did to Eugene," Shawn said. "Don't think I'm going to let that go." 

"Who the hell is Eugene?" Juan said. "You know what, I don't care. Whatever happened to this Eugene, you can expect a lot worse for yourself." 

"I don't think you've quite got the hang of this communication thing, yet," Shawn said. "Let's try again next week." 

Shawn frowned and hung up the call. He'd underestimated Juan. Despite his reliance on clichés taken directly from the Thug's Handbook, he was obviously brighter than the average bear. It was another dead end. 

Shawn closed his eyes and placed his hands at his temples, before running through everything again. 

And then again.

* * * * *

Gus rushed up the front steps of the Spencer house, before slapping his hand repeatedly on the door. He was just reaching out to press and hold the doorbell down when the front door swung open, and Henry stared out at him in a flour dusted apron.

"Oh, Gus," he said. "I should have known." 

"Mr. Spencer! Is Shawn okay?" Gus asked, caught between panic, worry, and anger—which was a combination he was all too familiar with, being Shawn's best friend. 

"He's fine, but come on in," Henry said, moving back. "Shawn's asleep in his room." 

"Lassiter called me this morning to check on him," Gus said. "He said he's been assaulted, burgled, and stalked!"

"Yes to the assault and burglary," Henry said. "The stalking is more just a byproduct of the first two, so I'm not worried about that so much." 

"I'm gonna kill him," Gus said. "Why didn't you call me?" 

"Why didn't I call you?" Henry asked. "I'm not your best friend. Why don't you go up and ask Shawn?" 

"Good idea, I will," Gus said, before leaning into the kitchen. "Are those pancakes I smell?" 

"Tell you what," Henry said. "You get my lazy ass son out of bed and downstairs, you can have as many as you want." 

"You got yourself a deal," Gus said, before turning and sprinting up the stairs. 

Gus didn't bother knocking when he reached Shawn's door, he just barreled in, letting it fall shut behind him. His eyes went to the bed first, which was empty, and still made, before finding Shawn against the back wall. "Shawn!" he yelled. "What is this about you nearly getting killed? Again?" 

Shawn froze, spinning to face Gus. "Gus!" he said happily. "Good, you're here. Wait. Why are you here? How did you know I was at my dad's?" 

"Lassiter called me to fill me in. You're almost as bad a best friend as you are a boyfriend," Gus snapped. "Why didn't you call me?" 

"I did call you," Shawn protested. "I said, I'm at a strip club, do you want to come? And you were rude to me." Shawn paused for a moment, as if remembering something. "By the way, if Buzz asks, you're living there." 

As Shawn was talking, Gus started to take in the wall behind him, which was a spider web network of lines and words written in black pen, interspersed with black and white photos and articles being held up by Scotch tape. "What is all this?" he asked nervously. "I leave you alone for one night and you turn into Howard Hughes?" 

Shawn paused. "Are you actually insulting me with a Leonardo DiCaprio movie? Because you're only hurting yourself." 

"He was a real person, Shawn!" Gus protested, moving closer to examine the wall. "Your dad is going to kill you." 

"What? Why?" Shawn asked, crossing something out on the wall and then filling in something else. 

"This is permanent marker, Shawn," Gus snapped. "That's it, you're getting a dry erase board for Christmas." 

"Don't worry, I've positioned it all carefully. I'll put my posters back up when I'm done." Shawn frowned as he looked at his handiwork. "Actually, this has kind of taken on a life of its own. I may need more posters. Do you still have your poster for _War Games_?" 

Gus ignored him, tracking the chart Shawn had created down from Max Diaz, and frowning at the bits of near illegible scribbling Shawn had filled in on almost every available space—some facts, some questions, such as, 'how does Juan Leon make a powder blue polo shirt look scary?' or 'do diamonds come in yellow, and would anyone wear them if they did?' 

"They're called Canary diamonds, and lots of people wear them," Gus said, before frowning at Shawn. "Have you been at this all night?" 

Shawn blinked at him. "It's morning?" he asked. 

"Okay, where is it, Shawn?" Gus snapped, leaning to look under the bed. 

"Where's what?"

"You think I'm stupid?" Gus asked. "You're back on the Red Bull!" 

"Gus, I'm clean, I swear!" Shawn protested. "I haven't touched the stuff!" 

Shawn's eyes were manic, but they were clear, so Gus decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. "So what is all this then?" he demanded. 

"This is our case," Shawn said. "What is it my dad always says? You need to 'broaden your vision.' Juan León said the same thing, in less pretentious terms." 

"Juan?" Gus asked. 

"My assaulter-burglar," Shawn said. "Burgassualter? The guy that broke into my place and threatened to kill me. But he warned me off first, said I didn't know what I was dealing with. That's what everyone keeps saying. 'You don't know how deep this goes.' That kind of thing. So I decided it was time I found out." 

"And did you?" Gus asked. 

"Maximilian Ernesto Diaz," Shawn said loudly, over enunciating in some approximation of a Spanish accent for effect. "Everything about this case, and I mean everything, can all be traced back to him." 

"Isn't he in prison?" Gus asked. 

"Yes," Shawn said. "But he wasn't when this whole thing started, back before Avery Daily was killed at the Dah-Ling Store-It-Yourself, back before those diamonds were taken from High-Land Jewelers—and he's still got people on his payroll now. Only difference is he's handing out orders from the payphone in the prison yard instead of from behind a desk." 

"Where does Cyril fit in?" Gus asked, nodding towards his photo. 

"Cyril used to work for Sunshine Construction," Shawn said. "Which is owned by Diaz." 

"You mean Riner was working for a mob boss?" Gus demanded. 

"I don't know if you could call him a mob boss," Shawn said. "Maybe a Kingpin? An Overlord? But no, he wasn't working for him. Well, he was, but only so he could steal from him. I think. Or maybe the stealing from him thing came after. I don't think that part matters." 

"What matters then?" Gus asked. "Because this all looks like gibberish to me." 

"It's all being orchestrated by Diaz, but the question I can't figure out is why," Shawn said, tapping the capped marker against his lips. "He's almost guaranteed to win his parole—why take the risk? He's got enough money, so what's so special about these diamonds?" 

"Maybe it's revenge against Cyril," Gus said. 

"No," Shawn said, shaking his head. "Juan never once asked me where Cyril was hiding. The only thing he asked about were the diamonds—and guess who owns High Land Jewelers?" 

"Max Diaz?" Gus guessed. 

"Maximilian Unlimited," Shawn said. "Which is owned by Max Diaz." 

"So Max Diaz," Gus said. 

"Right, so I thought, why risk insuring it in the first place? Drawing attention? It's stolen," Shawn said. "But what was it you said about High-Land Jewelers during the Dah-Ling case? They're one of the few American jewelers implementing 'diamond fingerprinting,' which means they had access to the databanks. So what if they weren't cataloguing them, what if they were erasing all trace?" 

"You mean you think the diamonds were already in the database by their previous owner?" Gus asked, his eyes going wide. "They must have succeeded then, right? The police never found out who owned them before?" 

"No, they got Diaz on possession of stolen goods because he couldn't account for how he had purchased the diamonds, or provide any information on where he'd gotten them from," Shawn said. "But the police never found out where they were from." 

"Did they even look?" Gus asked. "Because that seems kind of important." 

"Dude, don't you get it? This is like when they got Capone for tax evasion, they didn't care at all for the crime," Shawn said. "They just wanted to use it to put him away for all the other stuff they knew he was doing but couldn't prove." 

"Right," Gus said. "So if this was just a trumped up charge, why are you so interested in it?" 

"Exactly," Shawn said, pointing at Gus. "Why is it all coming up again? Diaz is serving his time and bound to get an early release, he should be writing this all off as bad luck and moving on to renew his life of crime." 

"But you don't think that's what he's doing?" Gus asked. 

"Diaz never made a move on this while Ava had the diamonds hidden all those years, or even after Cyril disappeared with them," Shawn said. "This all started when they showed up again. He wants them back. The question is why? I need to know what Lassiter knows, Gus. What the FBI know. I've been over this a million times but I don't have all the pieces yet!" 

"I don't think Lassiter's going to help you," Gus said. "He's not happy with you. He asked me to make sure you were alright, so you'd still be alive when he gets back and he can kill you." 

"He asked you?" Shawn said, momentarily thrown. "Why does he even have your number?" 

"I don't know, Shawn," Gus said. "Maybe because you only remember to turn on your phone about two days of the week and you're usually with me?" 

"Yeah, I guess that makes sense," Shawn said. "But it's still creepy. Regardless, I said I need to know what Lassiter knows, I didn't say I planned to ask him. I just need to find it out for myself." He closed his eyes, picturing Carter's home address as it had appeared on Lassiter's computer screen. "And I know just where to start." 

"Where?" Gus asked suspiciously. 

"One of Cyril's known associates lives right here in Santa Barbara," Shawn said. "Maybe we'll be able to find some clues about why Cyril was in New York." 

"The police aren't going to let you go to see some guy that knows Riner. They think Riner's a murderer, remember? Again," Gus said. 

"Man, is he still out there?" Shawn asked, peeking through his blinds. The police cruiser was sitting across the street, Buzz turned to stare directly at his father's front porch. "We're going to have to lose the tail. I can't afford any more delays. If I don't step it up Lassie might have this case solved before me." 

"But your dad made pancakes," Gus protested. 

"Forget about the pancakes, Gus! You need to straighten out your priorities," Shawn said. "We've got a huge case here. This could go nation-wide! We might even get on CNN." 

"You know it's my life long dream to be on CNN, Shawn," Gus said seriously. 

"I know, buddy," Shawn said. "And I promise I'll even use your real name when they interview me." 

"You're not gonna be on CNN anyway, because you're not leaving this house," Gus said, crossing his arms with a smug grin. "You really think you're gonna get out of here without Mr. Spencer knowing about it and then lose a police tail?" 

"It'll be easy! My dad is busy cooking, and as for my watchdog, I'll distract him, you put a banana in his tailpipe," Shawn said. 

"I'm not doing that," Gus said. 

"Why not?" Shawn demanded. "It's a perfectly sound plan." 

"Because I'm not Axel Foley!" Gus snapped. "And Buzz could squash me like a bug." 

"You are the only person alive who is afraid of Buzz McNab," Shawn said. "But if it makes you feel better, his replacement should be here any minute, I'll make a break for it while they're switching shifts. You go wait on Bennet Street. I'll go out back and travel through the backyards like Ferris Bueller." 

"I'm not gonna be a part of this, Shawn," Gus said. "You've got people trying to kill you." 

"Not people, Gus, a single person," Shawn protested. "That's not nearly as bad." 

"Diaz, this Juan guy, possibly Riner and his partner, Lassiter, your father when he sees what you've done to your room," Gus said, counting them off on his fingers. "And me." 

"Et tu, Gus?" Shawn said. "What if I promise to take you to IHOP? All the pancakes you can eat." 

"Now?" Gus asked cautiously. "Cause I'm hungry. I'm feeling a little faint. I need sustenance." 

"As soon as we check out Carter's, I promise," Shawn said. 

Gus looked uncertain. "How long is that going to take?" he demanded. 

"Not long at all," Shawn promised. "Then we can go get pancakes and I'll even let the police follow us all the way to the IHOP if it makes you happy." 

"Okay," Gus said reluctantly. "Your dad said I could have pancakes if I got you out of bed. So I'll just tell him I couldn't get you up and go wait for you on Bennet. But you have ten minutes, Shawn. Any longer and I'll be enjoying my pancakes at the IHOP without you." 

"Fair enough," Shawn said. 

Gus stalked out and Shawn went back to the blinds. He watched as a minute later Gus drove off. A few minutes after that, another police cruiser pulled up behind Buzz. They exchanged a few words before Buzz drove off. He didn't recognize the replacement officer, but he had donuts and was reading the Swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated, so Shawn didn't foresee any problems in giving him the slip. 

That just left his father. 

Shawn grabbed his backpack and then tiptoed down the steps. His father was swaying as he flipped his pancakes over on the burner, humming what sounded like _Mellow Yellow_. Shawn froze for a moment in disbelief, before darting for the living room and hiding against the wall a moment before his father swung around. Shawn leaned back to look in the kitchen, relieved when his father picked up the chorus again, _quite right-ly_ , and then slipped out the back door. 

He jogged across the street, went through Mr. Stern's gate and then hopped his backyard fence. Gus was waiting in the Echo, looking paranoid and twitchy. Shawn pulled open the car door and threw himself into the passenger seat. "Go, Gus!" he shouted. "They're right behind me!" 

Gus pulled out into the street, sending the tires squealing, and leaned his head back to watch the rearview mirror. "Who? Where are they? I don't see anyone, Shawn!" He broke off as he realized Shawn was laughing, and tightened his hands on the steering wheel. "That's not funny." 

"It was pretty funny," Shawn protested. "Turn right. We're going to MacArthur street. He lives in Blue Hedge apartments." 

"Those are some nice apartments," Gus said. "This guy must be doing okay for himself. Better than your friend Riner, anyway. He's not dangerous, though, right? Who is he, anyway?" 

"I can assure you that you are in no danger from this guy whatsoever. And Cyril has been doing just fine for himself," Shawn protested. "I've always wanted to climb Everest." 

"You got short of breath when we hiked twenty feet up Mt. Shasta," Gus said. 

"At least I didn't pass out like a little girl," Shawn said. 

"You know I have extreme climate onset asthma," Gus protested. 

"I'm pretty sure that's not a real thing," Shawn said. "You just have vertigo. Like that time when we climbed to the top of the playground at McDonalds and your mother had to call the fire department to get you down." 

"That's low, bringing that up," Gus said. "You know I still get nightmares about that." 

"It was awesome," Shawn said. "They let me wear their fireman's hat and sit in the truck until the paramedics had checked you out and diagnosed you with scaredycatitis." 

"My foot got stuck between the bars, Shawn, you know that," Gus snapped. 

"I know that's what you said happened, but you forget I was up there with you," Shawn said. "Hey, hey, we're here! Slow down. You're going to miss the turn off." 

Gus drove into the apartment parking lot and shot Shawn a dirty look. "I want to know who this guy is before I get out of this car," he said. "One, is he a murderer?" 

"I do not believe so," Shawn said. "Not convicted anyway." 

"Assault?" Gus asked. "Theft?" 

"No, and yes," Shawn said, getting out of the car. "Are you coming or not?" 

Gus reluctantly followed Shawn to the door. "I can't believe I helped you ditch your protection detail so we could interview someone potentially dangerous." 

"Gus, you're not listening, this guy no longer has any potential for danger, or anything else," Shawn said. "Now, you stand here." Shawn took Gus by the shoulders to place him with his back to the door. He kneeled down in front of the doorknob, with Gus hiding him from view. 

"Why am I standing here like this?" Gus asked, attempting to wave in an unsuspicious manner as a pair of joggers went by. "Doesn't this guy know you're coming?" 

"I don't think so," Shawn said. "Although he could be looking down on us, I suppose, if you want to get philosophical. But the simple answer would be no, since he's sort of dead." 

"Shawn!" Gus turned his head to see what he was doing. "Are you breaking into this place?" he asked, his voice taking on a panicked edge. 

"I can see why you would have that impression," Shawn said. "But don't worry, these things are top of the line. They're not going to leave a scratch." 

"Where did you even get lock picks, Shawn?" Gus demanded. 

"Lassie bought them," Shawn said. 

"Lassiter bought you lock picks?" Gus said incredulously. 

"Well, not exactly," Shawn said, as the door clicked open and he got to his feet. "He bought them for himself." 

"I'm not going to prison," Gus told him, as he turned around. "If it comes down to it, I'm gonna have to sell you out."

"Relax," Shawn said, before clearing his throat. "I mean, it's not like we can do any more damage, am I right?" 

"What are you—" Gus leaned over his shoulder. The apartment had been torn apart, in much the same manner of Shawn's. "We need to call the police." 

"Of course we do," Shawn said, wiggling his fingers as he stepped inside. "And we will, just as soon as I absorb enough to have some visions." 

"Sometimes I worry about you," Gus said. "It's like you buy into your own act these days. You're not actually psychic, Shawn." 

Shawn ignored him, turning to survey the room. There were a small scattering of framed photos on the wall, mostly stock pictures of buildings or wooded areas. The pictures alternated in a strange kind of harmony, each of them tilted enough that he knew someone had checked to see if there was anything hidden behind them. 

All of the walls held the photos, except for one. Shawn focused in on it, noting the tiny holes where pushpins had been. Two were still pushed into the drywall, tiny scraps of paper hanging around the sharp edge where something had been carelessly torn away. 

"You need to tell the police about Juan Leon," Gus said. "This has got to be him." 

"It's pronounced León," Shawn said. "And I gave them a sketch." 

"Yeah, that was real helpful of you," Gus said. "Only you know the guy's name, so you could have just told them that." 

"If I give them all the answers, they're never going to learn," Shawn protested. He tilted his head as he noticed the corner of a page lodged between the desk leg and the wall. He kneeled down and slid it out. It was printed from the Santa Barbara Herald.

> Psychic Prediction Comes True, by Betty Bertworth. 

> On the morning of August the 17th, Shawn Spencer, psychic consultant to the Santa Barbara Police and independent private detective, announced that Cyril Riner was innocent of the murder of Avery Daily, which took place at the Dah-Ling Store-It-Yourself on May 25, 2007. The statement was fervently denied by sources within the police, but Cyril Riner was nonetheless cleared of all charges within 24 hours of Spencer's announcement. "New evidence has come to light," Det. Carlton Lassiter admitted. "It doesn’t make him innocent. It only makes him less guilty than we thought." 

> Within moments of the announcement that Riner's conviction had been overturned, the police made public the arrest of Ava Dah-Ling for conspiracy and the murder of Mark Lyle, who is now known to be the man who shot Avery Daily. This is not the first time that Spencer's off the wall predictions have come true, and it raises the question on everyone's mind: is he the real deal? Psychologist Martin Bender, who treated Spencer as a child, certainly does not think so. "He's highly intelligent, but he isn't psychic. He doesn't have a proper outlet for his intelligence and so he gets bored, resorting to juvenile acts masquerading as 'psychic ability' to get attention. One of these days his wild guess is going to be off the mark and someone is going to get hurt." Whether Bender is right or wrong, that day is certainly not today. Spencer was unavailable for comment, though—

Shawn's grinning photo had been circled in red ink. He frowned down at it. "They talked to Mind-Bender Martin? Where did they dig him up? And what do they mean, 'he treated' me? It sounds like he took me out to dinner." 

"Give me that," Gus said, grabbing it from him and reading it quickly. "You had a psychologist?" 

"Have you met my mother?" Shawn asked. "She felt I wasn't 'living up to my potential.'" 

"You weren't," Gus said, before looking back to the article with a frown. "There's something wrong about this. This article isn't about Riner, it's more about you." 

"There's nothing weird about that," Shawn said. "The press loves me. I'm like the American David Beckham." 

"David Beckham is the American David Beckham," Gus said. "He joined Los Angeles Galaxy in 2007." 

"I'm pretty sure it's still me," Shawn insisted. 

"That's not what I meant anyway, Shawn," Gus snapped. "Why would one of Riner's old crew be looking into you? Don't you think he should have articles about Riner or his jobs? And you don't find it at all alarming that your face has a big red circle around it?"

"Not really," Shawn said. "I draw red circles around things all the time. You've seen my fridge." 

"There's something you're not considering," Gus said. "These people think you have the diamonds. What if that's because Riner told them you did?" 

"He wouldn't do that," Shawn said. 

"What do you really know about the guy, Shawn?" Gus demanded. "He held you hostage once, then disappeared with all the evidence in our case. It's not like his track record reads as reliable." 

"Maybe you're looking at the wrong records," Shawn said, squinting as he ran a hand along the now empty wall. "Cyril is very good at what he does. He went for years without being caught. If Lyle hadn't betrayed him, he probably never would have been. No, Cyril has a plan. I just don't know what it is yet." 

"And that doesn't worry you?" Gus asked. 

"If he was going to set me up as some kind of fall guy, he wouldn't have warned me about it first," Shawn said.

"Okay," Gus said reluctantly. "So say he's on the level, and has all the best intentions, that doesn't mean what he's dragging you into is any less dangerous." 

"Danger's my middle name," Shawn said, his eyes focusing in on the answering machine. It was steadily blinking a '1.' He reached out to press it, and Gus came to stand beside him. 

"Carter, it's me," said a voice that Shawn recognized instantly as Cyril's. "Look, things are getting out of hand. Fred and I are coming back, but not to Santa Barbara. You'll get the place for our meeting by the usual method. But do me a favor, and keep an eye on Shawn Spencer. Somehow they found out I'd been communicating with him, and they're starting to think he's been working with me all along. If you think he's in trouble, contact Detective Lassiter anonymously. I'll explain when I see you. Take care." 

"Juan must have heard this when they searched Carter's place and thought Cyril was trying to mislead them or something, that he really had given them to me, maybe?" Shawn frowned, before reaching out and deleting the message. 

Gus tried to stop him, but was too late. "Shawn! That was evidence!" he shouted. 

"That's the last thing I need the police to hear," Shawn said. "If even Cyril is worried about me, I'm going to find myself locked up in some Motel Six with Buzz bringing me cups of noodles and bottled water." 

Gus was about to reply, when he heard a knock at the door, and then the doorknob started spinning in place. "Oh god, he's back," Gus whispered. "They always return to the scene of the crime. We're dead." 

Shawn scanned the room quickly, before grabbing Gus's arm and pulling him towards a coat closet, he pushed him inside and then followed, shutting the door behind them. "Just be quiet," Shawn said. 

"I'd be quiet if you could get your foot off mine," Gus said, shoving him a little. "I can't breathe in here. I think my extreme climate onset asthma is back." 

"And I think your scaredycatitis is back," Shawn hissed. 

"Yeah, and how's it going over there for you, Danger?" Gus whispered viciously. "You feel kind of tense."

"So stop feeling me," Shawn said, pushing him away. Gus pushed him back, and Shawn put an elbow in his back. Gus got behind him and wrapped an arm around his neck, and then the door was being swung open, and they both fell flat to the floor. 

Shawn squinted at the immaculate pair of cream-colored heels, the right one tapping in irritation, and followed them up to a beige skirt, maroon blouse, and a pair of very angry grey eyes. "Hello, boys," Juliet said. "Comfortable?" 

"Jules!" Shawn said, pushing Gus off him so he could jump to his feet in an attempt at looking casual that he couldn't quite pull off with Gus still plastered to the carpet. 

Gus stood up slowly, dusting himself off and not meeting her eyes. "Detective O'Hara," he said politely. 

Shawn recognized the detective behind her as the one that had relieved Buzz. He was rounding a bit around the middle and still had donut dust on the collar of his shirt. Shawn thought he could probably outrun him if it came to that, and he could definitely outrun Jules in those heels. Well, probably. 

But he would prefer to get out of here with some dignity, so that would be Plan B. 

"What are you doing here?" Shawn asked. 

"Lassiter told me you'd be here," Juliet said. "And who Carter Raynes was. The question, Shawn, is what are you doing here? I've been assured by the Chief that you weren't hired on any cases."

"The door was unlocked," Shawn said. "When no one answered I looked in the window and saw the state of the place, I was worried someone might have been hurt. I was a concerned citizen, Jules." 

"Uh huh, and you just happened to be out front of a murder victim's house?" Juliet asked. "And everything just happened to be torn apart?"

"I didn't do this!" Shawn protested. 

"Of course you didn't, but whoever had could have still been here," Juliet said firmly. "You could have been hurt! Whoever did this could still be around. Officially, Vick has made it clear you have nothing to do with this case. Unofficially, I'm also calling your boyfriend to tell on you."

"But, Jules!" Shawn protested. 

"No, Shawn, you don't have anything to do with this," Juliet said. "You're going back to your father's where you're supposed to be." 

"I don't think I'm supposed to be at my father's," Shawn said. "Not since I was seventeen, and even then I found it a little hard to believe." 

"I'm sure," Juliet said. "This place is now a crime scene. Officer Oakley is going to escort you back to your dad's, where you are going to stay. But first you're going to tell me everything you know. Right now." 

"Alright, you got me, Detective O'Hara, fair and square, I'll tell you everything," Shawn said, before sidestepping her and grabbing Gus's sleeve. "Dude! Plan B!" 

Shawn started running, pulling Gus behind him towards the car. Juliet was standing in the doorway with her arms crossed when he looked back. "This is beneath you!" she shouted after them.

Gus and Shawn quickly threw themselves into the Echo and sped off. Gus looked a little like he might be going into shock. "I'm on the run from the police," he said in disbelief. "I told you this was how my tragic story would end!" 

"Technically, you said you thought it would end being wrongly accused," Shawn said. "But we actually did just totally run away from a crime scene and the police." 

"Oh god, you're right," Gus said. "I'm a fugitive. You've turned me into a fugitive, Shawn!" 

"You're not a fugitive," Shawn said. "You have to be convicted first to be a fugitive, I'm fairly certain of that. At worst we're suspects or persons of interest. But that's semantics, anyway. Let's go get our pancakes." 

"I'm not getting pancakes!" Gus yelled. "We're on the lam!" 

"I really don't think they're going to search for us at the IHOP," Shawn insisted. 

"No, Shawn," Gus said. "We need to turn ourselves in." 

"Now you're talking crazy," Shawn said. "I've got it! Didn't you say Comic Con was in Sacramento this year? We'll drive down and stay there. We can wear alien costumes or something, no one will ever find us! Not the police, and not Juan." 

Gus looked thoughtful. "You're actually going to go to Comic Con with me?" he asked. 

"Just until the heat's off," Shawn said. "What do you say? Drop me off at Lassie's so I can get some stuff together and buy the tickets, and you go home and pack and then come back and pick me up." 

"Okay, but when we get there, you owe me some pancakes," Gus said, changing course for Lassiter's. 

"You got it," Shawn said, grinning widely. Later, he would have to give Gus a hard time about believing he'd ever willingly attend Comic Con for anything but a case. 

For now, he was more worried about how much two round trip tickets to New York would cost.


	5. Chapter 5

Gus had dropped Shawn off at the curb before rushing off home to pack before the police tracked him down. Shawn had eventually given in and tried to explain that the police wouldn't really be coming after him, but Gus hadn't paid him much attention. Since it suited his purposes anyway, Shawn had stopped arguing with him. If he wanted to think he was like Wesley in U.S. Marshals, that was his call. 

Shawn opened the door and then moved into the entryway, his backpack hanging off one shoulder. He froze when he felt a gaze on him, and flipped on the lights. Shawn let out a scream and fell back against the door as he saw the man sitting across the room in Lassie's favorite armchair. 

"Did you think I was a burglar?" Henry asked calmly. 

Shawn stood back up straight, and picked his backpack up from where it had fallen to the floor. "No, actually," he said causally. "I thought you were some creepy guy sitting alone in the dark. And as it turns out I was right. What the hell are you doing here?" 

"You lose your escort, go gallivanting off to crime scenes, and you think I'm not gonna worry?" Henry demanded. 

"I am proud to say I have never gallivanted anywhere," Shawn protested. "I'm not even sure I know what that means." 

"Well, suffice it to say I knew you wouldn't be returning to my place, or yours, because the cops would have you in two seconds flat," Henry said. "It was a good plan to come here first, but they were a step ahead." 

Shawn frowned at him before rushing to the window. Officer Oakley was sitting in his cruiser across the street. "Damn," he said. "Seriously? Doesn't the city have a better use for their time and money than stalking me?" 

"I don't know," Henry said. "You tend to luck into running into murderers. Maybe they've got the right idea just following you around." 

"Did you call them on me?" Shawn demanded, spinning to face him. 

"Maybe, maybe not," Henry said. "The point is they're there for your protection." 

"Man—" Shawn said. "I can't work this way." 

"Tough luck, kid," Henry said. "You can decline protection as much as you want, they can still follow you around." 

"Yeah, but only as long as I'm in their jurisdiction," he said. "Do you still have that big suitcase, and can I borrow it?" 

"What do you need it for?" Henry demanded, getting to his feet as suspicion began to take hold. 

"I need it to dispose of a body," Shawn said solemnly. "But don't worry, I'll have it dry-cleaned before I bring it back." 

"Shawn," Henry snapped. 

"Never mind," Shawn said, heading towards the bedroom. "I'll steal one from Lassie." 

"I don't like that look, Shawn," Henry snapped, turning to follow. "I know you're not planning to go to New York." 

"This is why you will never be the psychic in the family," Shawn called to him. He pulled a suitcase out from under the bed. It was green and covered in Shamrocks that were a slightly different color green. "Really, Lassie?" 

"That's great, that's just great, Shawn," Henry snapped. "After all the progress we've made, and you're just going to run again. I bet you're going to have a little hoedown with your grandparents at the hippie commune, too." 

"I think you may be confusing hippies with cowboys," Shawn told him. "And yeah, seeing as I haven't seen them since I was twenty-six and working as a Page at Rockefeller Center, between solving a murder and making up with Lassiter, I'll probably drop by and say hi. What's wrong with that?" 

"Because they're unstable people," Henry snapped. "They were always a bad influence on you." 

"Unstable people? This from the man that gave me Uncle Jack," Shawn said. 

"I don't want you hanging around with him, either," Henry snapped. "You've got good people here, Shawn, good people that care about you and have you finally settling down. Don't start this again, this thing where you run off first chance—" 

"How is this running away? I'm running to something, to a case, to Lassiter," Shawn said. "And I'm taking Gus. He's like my own personal Jiminy Cricket. I'll be fine." 

"How did you manage to talk Gus into this?" Henry asked incredulously. 

"He may be under the impression we're going to Comic Con," Shawn said. "And on the run from the police." 

"Jesus, kid," Henry said, giving a little laugh of disbelief before scrubbing a hand over his head. 

Shawn pulled some of his shirts out from the closet, and then pulled some of his jeans up off the floor of the closet, before stuffing them into the suitcase. "Look, I'm only going to solve the case, and then I'll be back, okay?" Shawn said. "This isn't like before. It's not." Shawn held a hand to his heart. "If you love something, let it go, and it will come back." 

"Okay, alright, Shawn, fine, on one condition," Henry said. 

"You don't get to set conditions," Shawn said. "I'm going. It's been decided." 

"And if I call Chief Vick and let her know what you're planning, she'll have you picked up and put in protective custody and you won't be going anywhere." 

Shawn pursed his lips as he pulled the zipper closed. "You may proceed," he said grudgingly. 

"I want a call. At least once a day," Henry snapped. "Not a text. Not a postcard. A phone call. "

"I don't think I quite understand," Shawn said. "Do you mean that you want me to call you on the phone?" 

"Take it or leave it, Shawn," Henry snapped. 

"Okay, yes, I will call you," Shawn said. He sat down in front of Lassiter's computer. "And I promise I will not be involved in any hoedowns of any kind, hippie or otherwise." 

"Good," Henry said. "And you're coming back?" 

"Of course I'm coming back," Shawn said. "All my stuff is here." 

Shawn moved towards Lassiter's computer, and after a quick search found two last minute round trip tickets to New York. He bought them and printed out the reservation while Henry loomed behind him looking disapproving. "Do you hear that sound, Dad?" Shawn asked.

"What sound?" Henry snapped. 

"Exactly," Shawn said. "This is what printers in the 21 century are supposed to sound like." 

Henry turned around when he heard the pounding on the door. "Your partner in crime is here," he said. 

"Then I'm off," Shawn said. "Don't say anything about New York." 

"I'm not gonna help you lie to your best friend, Shawn," he snapped. 

"That's fair," Shawn said, grabbing the suitcase and taking off for the front door. "Don't say anything." 

"Shawn!" Henry yelled after him. 

Gus looked twitchy when Shawn opened the door. "The Fuzz have found us, Shawn! We're surrounded." 

Shawn looked past him at Oakley. "It's one guy," he said. "And since when do you refer to the police as 'The Fuzz?'" 

"Since I started my life on the run," Gus said. "If we're going to get to Comic Con in one piece, you're gonna have to learn the lingo." 

"Give me the keys," Shawn said, grabbing them from him. "You're not driving in this state." 

"What state?" Gus asked. 

"The State of Crazienia," Shawn said. "Come on, let's go before my dad stops us." 

"Shawn!" Henry shouted again. "Don't forget our deal!" 

"Got it! Lock up when you leave!" Shawn pulled the door shut and jogged to the Echo, getting into the driver's seat as Gus climbed in beside him. 

"How are you going to get rid of the Fuzz?" Gus demanded, as the police cruiser pulled out behind them. 

"They can't follow us once we leave their jurisdiction," Shawn said. 

"Oh, right, I get you, beating the Fuzz at their own game," Gus said. 

"If you don't stop calling them the Fuzz, I'm going to leave you on the side of the road," Shawn told him. 

"People call them the Fuzz, Shawn," Gus said. "That's what they're called." 

"In all the years I have known you, you have not once called them that until tonight," Shawn said. "It doesn't matter anyway. We're almost there." 

"We're nowhere close," Gus said. "Sacramento is hours away." 

"Yes, but the airport is only fifteen minutes away," Shawn said. 

"We don't need to fly to Sacramento," Gus protested. "We can get there by tonight, and then stay at the convention for the weekend and I'll be back in time for work on Monday." 

Shawn pulled into the parking lot of the airport. "True," Shawn said. "But it would take much longer to drive to New York, so I thought we should fly." 

"What are you talking about, Shawn?" Gus demanded. 

"We're going to New York," Shawn said. "Isn't it exciting?" 

"We're not going to New York," Gus said. "I know you seem to forget this, but I do have a day job. I have to be back to work on Monday." 

"Gus, I'm hurt you think so little of me. Of course I haven't forgotten," he said. "I spoke to your boss after you'd dropped me off. He sends his sincerest sympathies and asks that you take all the time you need. Also, he may be under the impression we're dating."

"Sympathies?" Gus asked, already resigned to Shawn's last confession. The majority of the office had been referring to Shawn as his life partner for years. 

"Yes, for the untimely demise of your great granduncle Alistair," Shawn said. 

"I don't have a great granduncle Alistair, Shawn," Gus snapped.

"Of course you don't, buddy," Shawn said. "Because he died in a freak rollerblading accident on the Brooklyn Bridge." Shawn smiled fondly. "You have to hand it to the old guy, he didn't half do things." 

"You can't just keep inventing relatives and then killing them off!" Gus protested. 

"Don't be ridiculous, of course I'm going to invent them first," Shawn said. "It's not like I would ever kill the real ones. That would be horrible." 

"I'm not doing this," Gus said. "No way, no how." 

"What, are you from the Emerald City now?" Shawn asked, as he parked the car and turned off the engine. "You have to go. I renewed your passport and everything."

"You don't need a passport to go to New York, Shawn," Gus snapped. 

There was a tapping at the window before Shawn could respond, and he glanced to his right to see Oakley leaning down. Shawn rolled the window down while Gus went very still, possibly in the hopes of turning invisible. 

"You boys planning to go somewhere?" Oakley asked. 

"Whatever gave you that impression?" Shawn asked. 

"We're in an airport parking lot," Oakley said. 

"I can see where that could be misconstrued," Shawn agreed. "Actually, we're here to pick up a friend." 

"This friend have a name?" Oakley asked. 

"Newton Crosby," Shawn said without pause. 

"Uh huh," Oakley said. "I got to make a call. Don't go anywhere." 

"He's going for backup, Shawn," Gus said, once he'd gone. "We're going to the slammer, the clink, the Big House." 

"Don't flatter yourself," Shawn said. "If he was taking us in, he wouldn't need back up. You'd surrender in a heartbeat and I'm a lover, not a fighter. He's only checking his orders, which means it's time to go."

"He said not to go anywhere," Gus protested, as Shawn got out and grabbed his suitcase. 

"Are you sure? Because I heard 'Donut good here,'" Shawn said. "In fact, I'd swear to that in a court of law." 

"You've sworn to being psychic in a court of law," Gus snapped, but pulled out his suitcase and locked the car.

Shawn glanced back, relieved to see Oakley was still in his cruiser, on the radio. "Okay, now we run," he said. 

"I'm not going to forgive you for turning me into an accessory," Gus snapped, before pulling up the handle on his suitcase and taking off after Shawn, his suitcase squeaking behind him as he ran faster than the wheels. 

"Dude, just pick the suitcase up!" Shawn shouted. 

Oakley had gotten out of the car and was glaring at them, but apparently parking lot chases were beneath him. 

"You know my vertebrae can't take that kind of strain," Gus shouted back. 

Shawn stopped at the entrance to the terminal, dropping his suitcase and putting his hands on his knees as he took deep breaths. A few moments later, Gus rolled up beside him, one of the wheels on his suitcase spinning in place for a moment before coming loose and rolling down the sidewalk. Gus took a deep breath. 

"I'm gonna kill you, Shawn," Gus said. 

"You should really try to liven that tired old phrase up sometimes, Gus," Shawn said. "Like, I'm gonna shank you, man, or I'm gonna garrote you. Wait, time out, is garrote a verb? 'He's been garroted!' "Hey, check out that dude garroting that other dude!' Okay. Yeah. It's a verb, so you could totally say that!" 

"I’m gonna strangle you with my bare hands," Gus said. 

"That's a little better," Shawn said. "At least I can see you're trying. I still would have gone with garrote, but maybe that's just me." 

Gus tilted his head up in snob-fashion, and rolled his broken suitcase along behind him as he walked into the airport with as much dignity as he could muster. It wasn't much, but Shawn was still impressed. "Come on, buddy," he whined, following him in. "You're going to love New York! It's a beautiful city." 

"Like you're an expert on New York all the sudden?" Gus demanded. 

"Of course I am! I still remember my first trip there. I checked into the Plaza, outwitted the dimwitted concierge and two crooks trying to rob Duncan's Toy Box, and I befriended a weird pigeon lady!" Shawn smiled fondly. "Those were the days." 

"That wasn't you, Shawn," Gus said. "That was Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone 2: Lost in New York." 

"Agree to disagree," Shawn said, reaching into his backpack to pull out the ticket printouts. He frowned as he noticed a can of pepper spray rolling along beside them. "Great," he muttered to himself. "My dad's obviously trying to get me sent to Guantanamo Bay." 

"What's taking you so long? We've got to hurry," Gus demanded. "Do you think they're going to stop us on the runway and drag us out? Because I don't think my heart can take it." 

"They have no cause to detain us," Shawn assured him—at least, they wouldn't so long as he remembered to throw out the pepper spray before they went through the x-ray, but he kept that part to himself. 

"Give me those," Gus said, snatching the printouts from him and standing his suitcase beside Shawn. "I'll handle this. You're obviously not coping well under the pressure." 

Shawn rolled his eyes, but let Gus go pick up the tickets for the flight. He glanced around the terminal before focusing in on a pair of boots just visible from one of those little privacy phone booths. Shawn tilted his head and stepped closer. There was plaster dust along the soles of them in a pattern his mind matched to Juan's. He crept across to the other side of the booth, peeking around to confirm his suspicion. 

It was definitely Juan, and he looked unhappy about something. Shawn dropped down into the booth beside his, and leaned up against the wall to listen in. 

"I don't see why I have to go to fucking New York," Juan snapped. "The psychic's here. He's got the diamonds. I'm telling you." There was a long pause, and Shawn glanced down curiously at Juan's overnight bag, which was sitting right by his feet. "I don't care what that traitor said. He wasn't loyal to his friends, what makes you think he was loyal to us? This Spencer knows something. It would be better if I stayed here." 

Shawn carefully reached down to unzip the bag, before sliding the pepper spray inside and zipping it back up. He leaned back in the booth and held his breath, but Juan didn't jump up to kill him, so he was pretty sure he hadn't been spotted.

"Fine!" Juan snapped, snapping his cell phone closed angrily before grabbing his bag and getting to his feet. Shawn leaned along the side of the booth to watch him walk away. 

When Shawn turned back around to get up, he saw Gus standing there with the shamrock suitcase in his arms and his suitcase trailing behind him, looking less than pleased. "You were supposed to be watching our bags," Gus snapped. "Where were you?" 

"Sorry," Shawn said. "I thought I really did see Newton Crosby, and how cool would that be?" 

"Steve Guttenberg is in the middle of filming _A Novel Romance_ in New York," Gus said. "If you're going to see him anywhere, it's going to be when we land at JFK." 

"You've been through a lot tonight," Shawn said, "so I'm not going to point out how creepy it is that you know that." 

"Take your suitcase, Shawn," Gus snapped, shoving it at him. "I've probably got a hernia now." 

"Yes, the three foot walk with my twenty pound suitcase must have been excruciating," Shawn said. 

"It's at least thirty pounds," Gus protested. "Maybe more." 

"Did you get our tickets?" Shawn asked. 

"Yes, though why I'm participating in this crazy trip I've no idea," Gus said. "And I packed all wrong if we're going to New York. I packed for Comic Con. I have my superhero t-shirts, Shawn. I don't even have any of my good suits." 

"Did you bring the Spiderman shirt?" Shawn said. "The one with the web going around the side and he's swinging around?" 

"You know I did," Gus said. 

"Sweet," Shawn told him. "You're going to be the coolest guy in New York." 

Someone was yelling at the security point, and they paused to look over. Juan was being held by a security guard while another went through his bag. Two more were approaching, trying to calm him down. 

"It looks like someone forgot to review their TSA guidelines," Gus said disapprovingly. 

"Let's get moving," Shawn said. "Don't make eye contact." 

"He must have brought something pretty terrible," Gus said. "I've never seen security swoop down that fast. I wonder if it's a gun?" 

"It's probably not a gun," Shawn said. "Keep walking." 

"You!" Juan shouted, trying to pull away from the guard. "You did this, didn't you? You little—I'm going to kill you! I'm going to skin you alive!" 

"Now, see, that's a proper death threat," Shawn said. "You should take notes." 

"Shawn, I think that guy is talking to you," Gus said.

"Don't be ridiculous, Gus, why would he be talking to me?" Shawn asked. 

"He's pointing right at you," Gus said, stepping away so he was out of the line of fire. 

"You better keep your third eye open, Psychic, because I will find you!" Juan shouted as he was dragged off. 

"Why does that guy want to kill you?" Gus asked. "What did you do?" 

"I don't think I appreciate you jumping to that conclusion," Shawn said. "Just because he was pointing in my general direction and yelling out 'psychic'? There are lots of psychics, Gus. There's more than you know about." 

"What the hell did you do, Shawn?" Gus demanded. 

"I may have put some pepper spray in his bag," Shawn said. "I thought it might slow him down a bit. I didn't think they'd bring in SWAT." 

"Who was he?" Gus asked. "Is that the guy? Is that your Burgassualter?"

"Yes, but I don't think Burgassualter is working, I vote for a revision," Shawn said. "Assualtlar! He's the assualtlar." 

"I don't care what you call him," Gus snapped. "We need to go get the police." 

"I think security has it pretty well taken care of," Shawn said, heading for the security point. "That one guy looked like the Rock." 

"I think he was serious about skinning you alive," Gus said. 

"I highly doubt it," Shawn said. "It's far too messy, Gus. These guys are lazy. They don't like anything that high maintenance. He'd probably just shoot me and be done with it."

"That's not reassuring, Shawn," Gus snapped. 

"I thought that was incredibly reassuring," Shawn said. "Skinned alive. Shot. I know which one I'd choose." 

"I choose door number three, old and in bed," Gus said. 

Shawn and Gus got through security with much less fuss than Juan, and were able to get straight on the plane. Gus had been quiet most of the way through, and it was starting to make Shawn twitchy. 

"Would you stop sulking?" Shawn demanded. "Are you going to ignore me this whole flight? Because it's six hours, and you know I will go crazy if I have to go six hours without talking to anyone." 

"You should of thought of that before you shanghaied me onto this plane," Gus said. 

"I haven't shanghaied you since that time I drugged you and drove us to San Francisco, you agreed to this," Shawn said. "It's going to be fun, I promise. We can go to the Empire State Building!" 

"I'm afraid of heights," Gus said. 

"Washington Square Park?" Shawn tried. 

"It's built on mass graves," Gus said incredulously. "That's thousands of bodies just waiting to rise up and I will not be at the front lines of the zombie apocalypse." 

"You disturb me," Shawn said. 

"I'm not going there, Shawn," Gus insisted. 

"Fine, okay, then what do you want?" Shawn asked. 

"You're taking me to Comic Con next year," Gus said. "And you're dressing up as a Vulcan." 

"Man," Shawn whined. "You know I can't be a Vulcan. I'm too excitable." 

"Better start practicing then," Gus said. "I don't want you embarrassing me." 

"If you don't want to be embarrassed, Comic Con is not the way to go," Shawn said. 

"My mind is made up," Gus said. "Either you agree to my terms or I will ride in silence this entire flight. I can do it. I once went ten hours without talking." 

"Your vow of silence in third grade, I remember it well," Shawn said. "Yes, fine, okay. I agree." 

"If I'd known you would give in that easy, I would have shot for a Romulan," Gus said. 

"I don't even know what that is," Shawn said. "Proudly." 

"Yes you do," Gus said. 

"I changed my mind," Shawn said. "Let's ride in silence." 

Gus laughed manically, and Shawn foresaw a long flight ahead—and people thought he wasn't psychic.

**1988**

Shawn sat staring out the window, absorbing the expansive New York cityscape, whilst nodding earnestly at every word his father said. Unfortunately, his father, on the other line of the phone, could not see it. 

"I mean it, Shawn. Are you listening to me?" Henry asked. "You listen to your mother, and I don't want you cleaning out your grandparents’ every last cent. I mean it this time." 

"I'll be good," Shawn promised. 

"Where's your mother?" he asked. 

Shawn watched his mother appear on the street below, furiously getting into her rented car and driving off in a huff. Shawn still didn't know why they'd needed to rush here, since both of his grandparents were fine. But his mother had been closing herself off in rooms with them since they had arrived, and from the bits of arguments he had overheard, they were trying to give her something she didn't want to take. 

"She's in the shower," Shawn lied. "Look, dad, enjoy your vacation and stop worrying, I know I will." 

"It's not a vacation, Shawn, I'm working," he snapped. "And don't think I don't know about your little plan to get them to buy you a boat. Just remember, if you succeed, the boat's mine until you're eighteen." 

Shawn hung up the phone with a frown. His father had been suspicious of his motives since he had insisted on packing the Captain's hat and the one size too small boat shoes that his grandmother had bought for him the year before. 

"Shawn, honey, are you in here?" Sue called. She opened the door and smiled in at Shawn. She was wearing a long knit sweater and a floor length pink skirt with sandals. His Grandpa George was wearing a shirt with a peace sign and torn jeans. Shawn had noted this drastic change in their fashion sense—his grandma usually preferring dresses and heels, his grandpa pinstripe suits and loafers—but had dismissed it, deciding he liked their new clothes better.

"We've got something to tell you, buddy," George said seriously.

"Oh, don't scare the boy, George," Sue chided, turning to smile at him. "It's nothing bad, honey, only we've decided we're going to leave the house. We're both retired now and we no longer wish to take part in capitalist society."

"We're going to be hippies and live in a commune," George clarified.

Shawn frowned. "Are you in some kind of trouble?" he asked carefully. "Because my dad says that hippies are no good, drugged up, wastes of space." 

"Yes, well, Henry does have a way with words," Sue said. "But no, honey, it's nothing like that. We have so much, but none of it makes us happy anymore. We wanted to give it to your mother, so she could spend it on you, but she's not happy with our decision. So we're signing it all over directly to you." 

Shawn stared at them for a moment. "Signing what over to me?" he asked. 

"The house, dear," Sue said. "And all of our money will be put in a trust for you, so you can have it when you're all grown up." 

"That's okay, I'm not planning to grow up," Shawn insisted. "Honestly all I wanted was a boat. Maybe a yacht, if you're feeling especially generous. But I don't want you out on the streets!" 

"We're not selling the house, Shawn," George assured him. "We just want you to look out for it for us for a while, okay?" 

"Well, we're going to hire people to look after it, naturally, George," Sue said. "He lives across the country." 

George frowned at this. "We're going to make horrible hippies," he predicted, before glancing down at Shawn. "Well? What do you think?" 

"I don't think my dad's gonna like this," Shawn said. 

Sue laughed and pulled him into a hug. "It doesn't matter. It's all yours now, baby," she told him. "Every last cent." 

Shawn didn't always mean to, but somehow he always seemed to end up doing exactly what his father told him not to.

**2010**

Lassiter paced the airport terminal anxiously, feeling naked without his gun. It was hard to believe he'd been here getting off a plane the day before himself—the time difference wasn't much but had left him disoriented. He'd left in the evening in Santa Barbara and when he arrived it was 8:00 AM in New York. It might not be so bad if he'd managed to sleep at all on the plane, as he had planned. 

From the moment the electronics light went off and he turned it on, his phone had started buzzing and didn't stop for the most of the flight. Half the station had called to let him know there had been a 459 at Shawn's apartment, but that he was fine, then Juliet had called to say he'd been victim in a 240 earlier that day (mid-meal, and Lassiter planned to yell at him for not telling him later), but was fine. They all said Shawn was fine. 

But Shawn wouldn't answer his goddamned phone so he could tell Lassiter himself. Luckily one of his sources had given him a heads up that Shawn had gone to the Hottie Tottie Tavern with Buzz, and so Lassiter had called the officer, knowing he would answer. Finally speaking to Shawn had been reassuring in some ways, and disheartening in others. Shawn had reverted to his slippery self, navigating his way past Lassiter's questions without answering a single one of them. 

Usually, Lassiter would have grabbed him and shaken him, or pressed him into a wall, or kissed him into submission—but there was no talking to Shawn on the phone. In an arena that was purely verbal, Shawn would win hands down every single time. And Lassiter had been trapped on the plane. 

Not for the first time, Lassiter was regretting making the trip. He had tried calling Shawn again when he was off the plane, but two FBI agents had come up to him at once and he been forced to focus on the case at hand. 

They introduced themselves as Special Agents Bosley Halder and Natasha Bynes. They were both serious and efficient, but they were more personable than other FBI agents he had been forced to work with in the past. They were both talkative and respectful of his point of view, and while Lassiter was flattered, he had a feeling he was being intentionally charmed, and he didn't like it. 

Chances were they were only doing it to gloss over the fact that they weren't telling him everything, but it didn't stop him from almost wishing Shawn was there so he could get a second opinion. He had just decided that Shawn was much better off where he was, when the call came in to let him know that Shawn was on a plane to New York with Guster. 

Lassiter had spent most of the day sequestered in the FBI headquarters, sitting in a small windowless room being questioned about Cyril Riner. Lassiter had begun to sympathize with his suspects—as obliging and respectful as the FBI agents had been, they were still treating him more like a witness and source of information than a colleague. 

When he had finally been able to get away he had gone straight back to the airport instead of the hotel, waiting for Shawn to get off his flight. His flight was running late. Typical. 

"I'm telling you, it's going to be almost like a real vacation!" Shawn's voice, though coming from inside the tunnel, was loud and clear. "We can check out some restaurants, go on a bus tour, and if we solve a murder somewhere in between, all to the good!" 

"You're not right in the head," Gus snapped back.

"This from the man afraid of the zombie apocalypse," Shawn said. 

"It could happen, Shawn!" Gus shouted. 

Shawn came out into the waiting area and stopped dead when he saw Lassiter staring back at him, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. Shawn checked for any avenue of escape, but the people coming off the plane behind him were all desperate to be free of the enclosed space, and pushed them inevitably closer. 

"Uh oh," Gus said. "I think you're in trouble." 

"Don't you mean we?" Shawn asked. 

"I'm not dating him, I can do what I want," Gus said. 

"Dating and doing what you want are hardly mutually exclusive," Shawn said. "I do what I want too." 

"Obviously," Lassiter grit out. "What the hell are you doing here, Spencer?" 

"I'm sensing you're mad," Shawn said. 

"What gave me away?" he asked. 

"You called me Spencer," Shawn said. "Also, if you were a cartoon character, you would have steam coming out of your ears." 

"The next flight to Santa Barbara is in twelve hours," Lassiter said. "You're both going to be on it." 

"This is why you would never make a convincing psychic," Shawn said. "You're just terrible at predictions. Let me show you how it's done: in twelve hours, Gus and I will be having Grey's Papaya. According to Matthew Perry in _Fools Rush In_ , it is a must for any trip to New York." 

"You know that's right," Gus said. 

"I'm not arguing with you about this," Lassiter said. "You can't be here, it's dangerous." 

"Yes, police conferences are notorious for being dangerous," Shawn agreed. "All those slides being shown, hours of talking about procedure, I bet some people fall asleep and never wake up. Spontaneous and incurable narcolepsy brought on by extreme boredom." 

"You know damn well why I'm here," Lassiter snapped. 

"Oh, are you admitting it now?" Shawn said. "I thought we were going to play this game a little longer. I had a whole list of cutting remarks lined up. It's a shame that they're going to go to waste." 

"Can we talk, alone?" Lassiter demanded. 

"We are alone," Shawn said. 

"We're in the middle of an airport, and Gus is two inches away from you," Lassiter snapped. 

Shawn turned to examine the distance between him and Gus. "Dude, why are you standing so close to me? Have you learned nothing from Sting?" 

"This is New York, Shawn," Gus said nervously. "People come here and get mugged and killed. It happens all the time." 

"Yeah, but we're in an airport," Shawn said. "You saw what happened to that guy trying to get some pepper spray on the plane. I think we're safe in here." 

"Think again," Lassiter growled. "Shawn. Alone. Now." 

"I'm just going to tell Gus everything you say anyway," Shawn said. "And then we're probably going to have some Appletinis and talk about how mean you are and how you're never going to do right by me." 

"This isn't a game," Lassiter snapped. "It's about Cyril Riner. I know you think he's a good guy, Shawn, but he's killed someone." 

"We've been through this before," Shawn said. "Cyril isn't a killer." 

"You don't know the circumstances," Lassiter snapped. 

"What? That Carter Raynes was shot execution style after pulling a job at an FBI evidence storehouse?" Shawn said. "And that Cyril and Fred Greenly were the only ones spotted at the scene? Or perhaps you think I don't know that what was stolen was the diamond I recovered from the Hottie Tottie Tavern over a year ago. Because I know all that, and more. For instance, did you know that goats have square pupils?" 

"I'm not even going to ask how you know all that," Lassiter snapped. "The first part. The goat thing is common knowledge. But I don't want to know how you figured out the rest." 

"Well, that makes for a refreshing change," Shawn said. 

"I'm not going to ask, because I'd probably have to arrest you," he continued. "What else do you know? I know you were at Raynes' house already, so you've obviously been investigating on your own this whole time I've been telling you to stay out of it." 

"How did you know I would be at Raynes house?" Shawn asked, narrowing his eyes. "And how did you know that I would be here, for that matter? Was it Jules? Did she rat me out?" 

"I don't reveal my sources, Shawn," Lassiter snapped. 

Shawn frowned and turned to look at Gus, who had moved closer, and was now pressed up against Shawn's right side. He had that look in his eyes he got sometimes right before he fled a crime scene, so Shawn reached out and grabbed the back of his shirt. "Fine. If you'll excuse us, we have a case to solve," Shawn said. 

"I will call the FBI, Shawn," Lassiter said, following him as he started pulling Gus away. "I'll have them put you in protective custody and you'll spend the next few weeks in some safe house while we hunt Riner down, is that what you want?" 

"What do you think, Gus?" Shawn asked. "Safe house? Sound like fun?" 

"I can't be here for weeks, Shawn," Gus snapped. "You know I don't have the right constitution for city life. The buildings give me vertigo, and the people scare me. There's a guy over there having a conversation with a trash can." 

Shawn glanced over at the man. "He's probably got one of those little ear phones," Shawn said, before squinting at him. "Okay, no, actually he doesn't. I'll give you that one." 

"Boys," Lassiter snapped. "Focus." 

"Okay, I'll focus," Shawn said. "Let's examine your statement and point out the flaws. One, you haven't told the Feds I'm here already, which means you'd rather they not know. Two, you don't want me sequestered for weeks, because you wouldn't get any sex."

"Shawn!" Gus snapped.

"Don't be such a prude, Gus," Shawn said. "Lassiter and I have sex. It happens. A lot. And we like it, and he's not going to want me somewhere he can't get any." Shawn turned back to Lassiter. "Which by the way, I hope you know you're totally not getting any. You're on the metaphorical couch for the foreseeable future because you lied to me." 

"You lie to me all the time," Lassiter said incredulously. "I only did it because I was ordered to!" 

"That makes it worse!" Shawn protested. "If someone ordered me to lie to you, I would have told you the truth!" 

"That doesn't make any sense," Lassiter said. 

"Actually, for Shawn, it kind of does," Gus said helpfully.

"We're going back to my hotel, where you are going to stay until I get you on a flight back to New York," Lassiter said, grabbing Shawn by the arm to pull him along behind him. He didn't have to worry about Guster, he followed right on their heels. 

"I really don't think you're allowed to do this," Shawn said. "It's a free country. Gus already explained to me that New York is still part of America, you don't need a passport to get here or anything." 

"I already gave you the options, Shawn," Lassiter said. "And I will have the FBI sequester you if you force my hand. They were dying to question you as it was, I've been fighting to keep you out of this and of course you show up right in the middle of it!" 

"I was already in the middle of it!" Shawn protested. "This was my case before it was your case!" 

Lassiter's eyes narrowed. "How so?" he demanded. 

Shawn swallowed as he realized he may have said too much, and turned to Gus for help. Gus, however, was clutching his suitcase to his chest and looking twitchy, apparently oblivious to the entire conversation. "I just meant," Shawn faltered, stumbling over the first lie that came to mind, which was to claim a psychic vision. He had found that this method of misdirection was less than effective on the people that knew he wasn't psychic. 

"Did Riner contact you?" Lassiter demanded, stepping closer to Shawn. 

Shawn had Gus backed up against him on his other side, so when he tried to step away he couldn't get far. "It was the guy," Shawn said. "The guy at Miró's! He said something, and I put it together then." 

"The guy at Miró's," Lassiter repeated, and Shawn noted anxiously that he sounded no less upset. "You mean the guy that assaulted you while I right down the hall enjoying dinner? Yes, I heard about that." 

"Oh," Shawn said. "So if you already know, I guess there's no need to rehash it now." 

"What the hell were you thinking, Shawn?" Lassiter yelled, drawing even more than attention than the guy talking with the trashcan. "I'm a cop. It's my job to handle guys like that, especially when it's you—" 

"I had it handled," Shawn said. "He didn't actually hurt me, so even if you'd arrested him, he would have been out on bail in no time flat. I needed to keep him busy a little longer than that." 

"So what did you do to accomplish that?" Lassiter demanded. 

"All that matters is that it worked," Shawn said. 

"Except he tore your place to pieces," Lassiter said. 

"Yes, and that kept him plenty busy," Shawn said. "Mission accomplished." 

"Shawn, Shawn," Gus said urgently. "We need to get out of here." 

"In a minute," Shawn assured him, before turning back to Lassiter. "Do you really want to send me back there? With some crazy bathroom assualtlar on the loose? Wouldn't you rather I were here, where you could keep an eye on me?" 

Lassiter thought about it. "Are you going to do what I tell you to do?" 

"It doesn't seem likely," Shawn said. "But I guess there's a first time for everything." 

Lassiter heaved a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Let's just go to the hotel, okay? We can settle in and talk this out. I think if we don't get out of here soon Guster is going to have a panic attack." 

"I can snap him out of it," Shawn said, before snapping his fingers in front of Gus's eyes. "Hey, buddy, I just saw Steve Guttenberg walk by!" 

Gus straightened up. "What? Where? Does anyone have a pen? I don't see him!" 

"See? He's fine," Shawn said to Lassiter. 

Gus glared at him. "That's not funny," he said. 

Lassiter ignored him and started dragging Shawn towards the parking lot. Gus followed right behind them, nearly running into Shawn more than once. "What hotel are you staying at?" Gus asked. "I hope they have room service. They didn't even give us peanuts on that plane." 

"You will not be ordering room service," Lassiter snapped. "Don't think I've forgotten what happened the last time you two were in a hotel room of mine." 

"As I recall, I was cleared of that accusation by a witness," Shawn said. "And as such I don't believe you can hold it against me." 

"I know it was you, Shawn," Lassiter said. 

"Yes, but you can't prove it, so it doesn't count," Shawn said. "That's how it works. For instance, I would like to make fun of Gus for listening to the Jonas Brothers, but I have yet to catch him in the act." 

"I don't listen to the Jonas Brothers," Gus snapped. 

"And I have to no evidence to the contrary," Shawn said, tilting his head as he noticed the car they were headed towards. It was a Chevrolet Tahoe with 'exempt' plates so was obviously on loan from the FBI. It was much nicer than a Crown Vic. "I call shotgun." 

"You're both riding in the back," Lassiter snapped, before ushering Shawn and Gus in the back of the car, suitcases and all. 

"This is ridiculous, I'm not riding back here," Shawn said, moving to open the door. It stayed locked and he frowned at it. 

"And that's why you're in the back," Lassiter said smugly, before pulling out of the parking lot and starting for the hotel.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that it's taking me so long to update this story! It's probably going to continue to take me quite awhile to update, but I promise that the chapters will at least be long.

Lassiter pulled up outside the hotel, and Shawn pressed his face against the glass, scoping out the area. 

"This is a great location!" he said. "You've got Little Italy on one side, and China Town on the other. And they sell some really great bootleg DVDs just around the corner." 

Lassiter ignored him, dragging Shawn out of the car by the arm and pushing him towards the hotel before pointing at Guster. "Out," he said. 

Shawn rolled his eyes as Lassiter gave the keys to the valet and lectured him for five minutes that he had every speck of surface memorized and that it had better be in the exact same condition when he got it back. 

"You know this kind of like when you tell the waiter that you'll know if they do anything to your food," Shawn told him. "It just makes them want to spit in it more." 

"Just get in the hotel," Lassiter snapped, before pushing Shawn inside. 

Gus watched them go, forgotten again, and considered hailing a taxi and finding his own way back to Santa Barbara. He looked down the street and some suspicious guys smiling over at him. One opened his jacket, from which hung any number of gold watches, and Gus quickly followed them in side. 

Shawn was already in the middle of a discussion with the porter, and Lassiter was pinching the bridge of his nose like he was fighting off a migraine. Not for the first time, Gus wasn't sure how they had managed to stay together so long without Lassiter killing Shawn and then himself in some kind of murder-suicide. 

"This isn't the lobby," the porter was explaining. "The lobby is on the second floor." 

"The second floor," Shawn repeated, before looking back at Gus. "Gus, what is the definition of a lobby?" 

"It's an entranceway," Gus said. "Or the attempt to influence decisions in government. But I think the definition you're looking for here is entranceway." 

"Yes," Shawn said. "And is this not the entranceway?" 

"It is," Gus agreed. 

"So then why isn't it the lobby?" Shawn demanded. 

"It just isn't," the porter snapped. "Because it's on the second floor." 

"So your information desk is in the lobby, and your lobby is on the second floor," Shawn said. "I demand to speak to your architect at once." 

"You can ignore him," Lassiter told the porter, grabbing Shawn's arm to pull him away. 

"I'm way ahead of you," the porter said disinterestedly, returning his attention to his book. 

"Lassie," Shawn protested. "I wasn't finished! This requires investigation. I need to know the thought process behind putting a lobby on the second floor, because I feel like Alice when she walked into Wonderland—" 

"We don't even need to go to the lobby," Lassiter snapped, hitting the call button on the elevator. "I'm already checked in." 

"It's the principle of the thing," Shawn said. "New York is like Bizzaro-world." 

"You know that's right," Gus said. 

Lassiter pushed them both into the elevator, pulling out his key as he hit the button for the tenth floor. "We're going to stay the night in my room, and in the morning we're going straight back to the airport." 

"We're all staying in your room?" Shawn said. "Is the bed big enough for that?" 

"I'm not sleeping in the same bed as the two of you," Gus said at once. 

"I'm ordering a roll-away bed," Lassiter said patiently.

"I can't sleep on those," Gus said. "I suffer from Fibromyalgia." 

"It's for me," Lassiter said. "You two can sleep wherever you want." 

"Does it have to be in this Hotel?" Shawn asked. 

"Anywhere in the hotel room," Lassiter snapped. "You can sleep anywhere in the hotel room." 

"I call the bathtub!" Shawn said. 

"You can't call a bathtub, Shawn," Gus snapped. 

"Done and done," Shawn said. "You can't sleep there anywhere, what about your Fibromalaysia?" 

"I don't want to sleep there, I need to take a bath," Gus said. "I can't take a bath if you're asleep in there." 

"You're both in the bed, where I can keep an eye on you," Lassiter snapped, stepping out as the elevator opened on their floor. 

"I can't share a bed with him!" Shawn protested. "He kicks!" 

"I do not kick, Shawn," Gus said. 

Lassiter pushed open the room to the door and Shawn followed close on his heels, his eyes going straight to the photos laid out over the bed. He catalogued them quickly, sure that Lassiter was headed straight for them so he could put them away. 

He saw the photos of the scene where Carter Raynes was killed, some surveillance of him with Cyril and Fred, and some pictures of some kind of evidence locker that had probably held the diamond he found at the Hottie Tottie Tavern. Shawn focused in on a report that was beside one of the photos, signed by Agents Bosley Halder and Natasha Bynes. 

It stated that Cyril Riner and Fred Greenly were suspected of the theft of the diamond and for the murder of Carter Raynes, but that they were not planning to release their photos to the media or release the story. Shawn frowned, surprised that they weren't using one of their best tools in a manhunt. 

"Why are they keeping this story under wraps?" Shawn demanded. 

Lassiter heaved a long-suffering sigh as he quickly stuck the photos and the report back in a file folder and held it against his chest. "That's need to know," he said. 

"And let me guess, they don't think you need to know?" Shawn asked. 

"It doesn't matter," Lassiter said. "We're going to find him. If you'd like to help, we might even bring him in without anyone getting hurt." 

"You want my help now?" Shawn asked. "I thought you wanted me out of this completely." 

"I just want you to tell me what you know," Lassiter said. "We've heard chatter that Riner's been communicating with someone in Santa Barbara. The FBI think it's referring to Raynes before he was killed. I'm a little worried it's you." 

"I haven't spoken to Cyril since he disappeared from the station last year," Shawn assured him. "And he certainly didn't tell me where he stashed any diamonds, if he even has them. He knows I'd give them back." 

"I hope that's true," Lassiter said. He frowned as his phone started ringing, and turned away to take the call. "Lassiter. You do? No, I'll be right down." Lassiter heaved another sigh as he put the phone away, before looking up to stare at Shawn. "I need to go." 

"Okay, have fun," Shawn said. 

"And I need you to promise you're going to stay here," Lassiter said firmly, stepping closer to Shawn, and leaning down so they were almost nose to nose. "Don't make me handcuff you." 

"Lassie, please, not in front of Gus," Shawn said. 

"Oh, so you do remember I'm here?" Gus snapped. 

Lassiter looked over at Gus, like he really had forgotten he was there. "Excuse us," he said, before grabbing Shawn's arm and dragging him into the bathroom. Lassiter pushed the door closed behind him and turned the lock. 

"Not that this doesn't have promise," Shawn said, "but don't you have to go meet the FBI?" 

"They can wait," Lassiter said. 

"They can wait?" Shawn repeated. "This is the FBI, Lassie. You've got a big huge schoolboy crush on them." 

"And they can wait," Lassiter said again, stepping closer to Shawn. 

Shawn backed up until he hit the sink, and then hopped up to sit on the surface in a transparent attempt to get the higher ground. Shawn frowned when it only served to put them at eye level. 

Lassiter stepped between his legs, resting the palms of his hands on Shawn's thighs. "I want to know everything that happened," he said firmly. "Starting with our dinner." 

"You were there for that," Shawn said. 

"And what happened for the five minutes that you weren't in my sight?" Lassiter snapped. 

"It's not that big of a deal," Shawn said. "Some guy wanted to know where Cyril had hidden the diamonds." 

"And why would they come to you for that?" Lassiter asked, narrowing his eyes. "You haven't been in contact with Riner, have you?" 

"Define 'contact,'" Shawn said. 

"Any form of communication," Lassiter said. "You said this was your case before it was mine. Explain that." 

"I have not contacted Cyril in any way or form," Shawn said. "I have not spoken to him. However, he may have sent me a postcard or two. Or three." 

"Damn it, Shawn!" Lassiter yelled. "How could you keep that from me?" 

"There was nothing in the postcards that could have led you to him," Shawn said. "Except they did make it pretty clear he was in Nepal." 

"You've known where he is, this whole time?" Lassiter asked dangerously, his grip tightening around Shawn's thighs. 

"Hey, careful, I bruise easy! My arm is probably already going to be black and blue from your manhandling as it is!" Shawn said, pushing Lassiter hands off before crossing his arms. "There's no extradition in Nepal. It wouldn't have done you any good." 

"You should have told me," Lassiter said. "It was still evidence." 

"No one but you cared about catching Cyril after Ava was caught," Shawn protested. "If you remember, she was the real villain in the story." 

"That doesn't change the fact that Riner abducted you," Lassiter said. 

"You make that sound like he's E.T. or something," Shawn said. "He merely took advantage of my presence to use my detective expertise to clear his name." 

"He took you hostage," Lassiter said. 

"That's what I just said," Shawn said. 

"I want to see them," he said. "The postcards."

"I don't have them anymore," Shawn said. "They were taken in the break-in." 

Lassiter snorted, bracing his hands against the counter to lean closer to Shawn. "And you didn't think that worth mentioning?" he demanded. "That's why they think you have the diamonds, Shawn." 

"The thought did cross my mind," Shawn agreed. 

"And Carter Raynes?" Lassiter asked. "Why were you at his apartment? Did Riner tell you about him?" 

"I didn't know anything about Carter until Ava told me about him!" Shawn said at once. "I meant it when I said I haven't spoken to Cyril."

"Ava? Ava Dah-Ling?" Lassiter snapped. "You went to see her?" 

"Oh, right," Shawn said with a wince. "Forgot you didn't know about that." 

"You can't work on a case without telling me," Lassiter said. "You could get hurt." 

"You were working a case without telling me," Shawn said. 

"That's different," Lassiter said. "It's my job." 

"It's my job too, I'm a private psychic detective," Shawn protested. 

"Okay, I know," Lassiter said. "But you're not a cop, and you need to let me handle the dangerous stuff." 

"I'm telling you, Cyril isn't dangerous," Shawn said. "He's the thief with the heart of gold! Like Pierce Brosnan in _The Thomas Crown Affair_!" 

Lassiter narrowed his eyes. "You think he looks like Pierce Brosnan?" 

"Not really," Shawn said. "He reminds me more of Gerard Butler. He's got that roughish thing going on." 

"Uh huh," Lassiter snapped. "And he's a criminal. You find that attractive?" 

Shawn laughed. "Oh my god," he said. "You're jealous." 

"I am not," Lassiter said. 

"You are!" Shawn said. "You know I love you, right? And that I'm not going to leave you for a wanted fugitive, who, by the way, is straight in any case?" 

"That doesn't mean you're not going to get into trouble with him," Lassiter said. "You've aided and abetted him before." 

"I didn't abet, I may have aided, slightly, but I never abetted," Shawn said. "Actually, I'm not sure I know what that means." 

"It means you assisted someone," Lassiter said. 

"Then I'm confused, what does aided mean?" Shawn asked. 

"It means you gave aid to someone," Lassiter said. 

"Isn't that somewhat redundant?" Shawn asked. 

"Don't try to change the subject," Lassiter said. 

"You chose the subject!" Shawn protested. "If you could have just said 'helped that fugitive that one time' instead the whole conversation could have been avoided." 

"The point is I want you to stay away from Cyril Riner," Lassiter said. "If you find him, no, when you find him, I want you to call me. Do you understand?" 

"I understand," Shawn said agreeably. "I don't think I've ever seen you jealous before. I like it." 

"Shawn, I told you—" 

"Right, you're not jealous, I get it," Shawn said, grabbing Lassiter's tie to tug him close. "But just so you know, you'll always be my Alex Rover." 

"I have no idea what that means," Lassiter said. 

Shawn laughed and braced one hand around Lassiter's neck to pull him in for a kiss. He pulled back slowly, tugging on Lassiter's lower lip. "It means stop worrying," he said breathlessly. "You know I can handle myself." 

"I know you're good at nearly getting killed," Lassiter said, leaning against Shawn. 

"Exactly," Shawn said. "Nearly. Which technically means I'm good at not getting killed. Cause here I am!" 

"I want you to promise you're going to stay in this room," Lassiter said. 

"You want me to stay in the bathroom?" Shawn asked. "What if Gus has to go?" 

"The hotel room," Lassiter snapped. "Promise." 

"Okay," Shawn said, slipping a hand beneath Lassiter's shirt. "I promise." 

"I mean it, Shawn," Lassiter said, grabbing his wrists to pull hold his hands in front of him, and out of distracting range. "This is serious." 

"I can be serious," Shawn assured him, and since Lassiter was holding his wrists he lifted a leg to wrap around Lassiter's waist and pull him closer, before capturing his lips again. 

"Gus is in the next room, and I need to leave," Lassiter said, nevertheless releasing Shawn's wrists so he could place his hands at Shawn's neck and gently pull him in for another kiss. "We can't be that serious. Anyway, I thought I was on the metaphorical couch?" 

"Exactly, but that's metaphorical," Shawn said. "In actuality I believe we should be in the same bed." 

"Sounds fair," Lassiter said, moving his hands down to Shawn's hips to pull him closer. "I'm not going to say I'm glad you're here because I’m still really mad at you for coming here; but I'm glad you're here."

"Does that mean I get to stay?" Shawn asked. 

"No," Lassiter told him, kissing him along his neck. "You're still on the next flight out of here." 

Shawn rolled his eyes and the pushed Lassiter back. "Then I guess you should be going," he said. 

Lassiter stared him down for a moment. "Back to the metaphorical couch, huh?" 

"It's less and less metaphorical all the time," Shawn said. 

"Alright," Lassiter said, before leaning over to pull open the door. "But don't forget you promised to stay here. If you're not here when I get back, I swear I'll find you, and I'm not going to be as reasonable the next time." 

"You mean this is you being reasonable?" Shawn called after him. 

"Guster, if either of you leave this room, I'm holding you responsible," Lassiter said, pointing at where Gus laid on the bed, his iPod on full blast. 

"What?" Gus cried, yanking out the ear buds. "How is that fair? I don't have to listen to you, you're not my boyfriend." 

"No, but you are the one that's supposed to have common sense, so keep him here," Lassiter snapped, slamming the door behind him as he went out.

Shawn leaned against the doorway of the bathroom and watched Lassiter exited the room. He turned to look at Gus. "So what do you think? Wait five minutes and then go?" 

"Shawn, did you hear anything he just said?" Gus demanded. "We need to stay here. Didn't you promise you would?"

"I'm a little disturbed that you heard that. But nevertheless, I also spent three years trying to convince him I was a psychic," Shawn said. "Really, this is kind of his own fault. He should know better than to trust me."

"I really think Lassiter will kill me if I let you leave," Gus said. "That man scares me." 

"Are you resigning as president of the Lassie fan club, then?" Shawn asked, leaning down to check under the bed for any forgotten evidence. He frowned and stood back up. Lassiter was far too meticulous for that. 

"I'm starting to realize you put up with a lot too," Gus said reluctantly. "He's got control issues." 

"Yeah, but that's not a problem," Shawn said. "I've found it works really well to just ignore him when he tells me what to do. He talks a good game but he doesn't actually do anything but yell a lot, and I've gotten really good at tuning him out." 

"I don't think that's the best way to handle a relationship," Gus said. 

"It's good for him," Shawn said, moving towards the mirror, and tilting his head as he watched the light hitting his reflection. "He'd get bored if I actually listened to him." 

"I'm pretty sure he'd appreciate it," Gus said. 

Instead of responding, Shawn suddenly laughed. 

"What?" Gus asked suspiciously. 

"Cyril's been here," Shawn said, stepping back and examining the room all again. "Probably more than once." 

"What?" Gus said. "How do you know?" 

Shawn leaned over the desk to the mirror, before exhaling deeply across the surface, fogging it up from one side to the other. In perfectly formed cursive, it stated: 

Return to the scene of the crime. 

"Wow," Shawn said, giving a huge grin as he ran his eyes over the message. "Ten points for style. Who leaves secret mirror messages? In cursive, no less." 

"No wonder Lassiter hates Riner so much," Gus said. "You've got a huge crush on him." 

"I don't have a crush on him, I merely admire his technique," Shawn said, before frowning. "I mean his performance. I mean his skills! I admire his skills." 

"He's a criminal," Gus snapped. 

"Yes, but he's such a good one," Shawn said. "It's like I'm chasing Robin Hood." 

"Yeah, if Robin Hood kept all his stolen goods for himself," Gus said.

"Yes, exactly," Shawn said. "I'm glad to see we're in agreement." 

"That wasn't agreement," Gus said. 

Shawn grinned brightly, standing back to look at the message. "I know where he is," he said.

"What? Riner?" Gus demanded. "How?" 

"He got in here without being seen, left this message, probably went through Lassie's things, and then walked right back out," Shawn said. "That means he knows when Lassiter comes in, and he knows when he goes out, so he's close enough to keep watch." 

"You think he's staying around here?" Gus asked. 

"No, I think he's staying here," Shawn said. "He's in the same hotel." 

"That's crazy, Shawn," Gus said. 

"But brilliant," Shawn said. "It's what I would have done." 

"And you're crazy," Gus pointed out. 

"Gus, it goes against all of nature, but I think we're going to have to go to the second floor to find this lobby that has been spoken of," Shawn said. 

"Maybe we should just give it another name," Gus suggested. "The Sobby." 

"Man, this is why I never let you name anything," Shawn said. "The Secondy. The Londy. The Scobby." 

"Yeah, because those are so much better," Gus snapped. 

"Are you seriously saying you prefer Sobby to Scobby?" Shawn demanded.

"Fine, Scobby is better," Gus said. "But that took you three tries, I only got one." 

"That's fair," Shawn said. "Next time someone decides to put the lobby on some random floor, I'll let you rename it." 

"Deal," Gus said. 

"Okay, I just need to Lassiter a message so he doesn't worry," Shawn said. 

"I thought you were mad at Lassiter?" Gus said. 

"I was, when he was lying to me. But now it's just me lying to him, so all is right in the world again," Shawn explained. 

"That's messed up," Gus said. 

Shawn pulled a marker from his pocket and leaned back across the desk. After wiping away Cyril's message, he wrote across the mirror;   
Went to track down a wanted fugitive, see you soon. H and K. Shawn. 

"That's what you're telling him so he doesn't have to worry?" Gus demanded. "And there's a whole pad of paper right by the phone, what is with you and writing on any available surface?" 

"I'm being green, by using less paper," Shawn said. "I thought you would approve." 

"You're destroying property," Gus protested. 

"What if I wrote on you?" Shawn asked. 

"You better stay the hell away from me with that marker," Gus snapped. 

"You got it," Shawn said, before slipping past Gus and pulling open the door. "Oh, and don't look at your left forearm for the next few days, okay?" 

Gus yanked back his sleeve at once, before frowning at his arm. He had buy milk written across his skin. "Shawn!" Gus yelled. "Shawn, when did you do this!" 

"Shh," Shawn demanded, as Gus stormed into the hall after him. "You can yell at me later. We have to be stealthy. I need the Jackal." 

Gus paused while he thought about it. "Okay, I'll be the Jackal," Gus said. "But if you ever write on me again I will kill you." 

"I was out of post-its!" Shawn said. "What did you want me to do?" 

"Why didn't you write it on your own damn arm?" Gus demanded. 

"I had a date with Lassie!" Shawn said. "And nothing kills the mood faster than a shopping list written all over you. Believe me, I learned that the hard way." 

"How is this even going to help you remember anything?" he asked. "When are you gonna see my bare arm?" 

"I don't need to actually see it again," Shawn said. "I have a photographic memory. I just needed to write it down somewhere so I could remember it." 

"So your shopping list is a mental picture of my arm with the words buy milk?" Gus asked. "You disturb me." 

"If you don't switch to stealth mode, I'm going to have to leave you here," Shawn hissed. 

"So my choices are go with you to hunt down dangerous fugitives that I'm not convinced aren't killers, or stay here and watch Pay Per View?" Gus asked. 

"Yes," Shawn said. 

"I'll stay here," Gus said. 

"Okay," Shawn said. "But I really don't think you want to be here alone when Lassie comes back. He probably would kill you, and I'm fairly certain he'd get away with it. According to the 4th Amendment I can't testify against him." 

"The 4th Amendment prohibits unreasonable searches and seizures," Gus said. "You're thinking of spousal testimonial privilege, which doesn't even apply, because you and Lassiter aren't married." 

"My argument stands," Shawn said. 

"No it doesn't," Gus said. "Not even slightly." 

"Whatever," Shawn said, hitting the call button for the elevator. "Are you coming or not?" 

"Only so I can make sure you don't get killed," Gus said. "So Lassiter doesn't kill me." 

They walked into the elevator and Shawn hit the button for the second floor with obvious reluctance. When they exited onto the floor, a small tiled walkway led the way to a reception desk. A stern looking woman sat behind the counter. Shawn frowned at her, eyes roving over her. She had well manicured nails and a hole in her jacket that had been so neatly stitched Shawn was probably the only one who would notice it. She was all about keeping up appearances, and probably guarded what little power she wielded jealously. She was totally Gus's type. 

"Dude, you distract her," Shawn said. 

"Why me?" Gus demanded. 

"Because she's over forty," Shawn said, as though it should be obvious. 

"What are you talking about?" Gus demanded. 

"Oh, come on, Gus!" Shawn said. "You can't flirt with anyone under the age of forty. It all falls to pieces or you start talking about Pluto or some other nonsense. But the Cougars love you, I mean this as a compliment! I mean, me, I can charm all the hot younger women, but the older women never fall for it. So this is up to you." 

"I can talk to hot young girls, Shawn," Gus snapped, and a passing tourist gave him a narrow eyed look before grabbing her teenage daughter and running for the elevator. 

"See? That's a perfect example of what I was talking about," Shawn said. 

"Fine, I got this," Gus said. "I can charm anyone." 

"Of course you can," Shawn said. "Especially when they're over forty and/or a school teacher." 

Gus straightened his jacket and put on his half-grin before sauntering over to the reception desk. "Hello," he said. 

The woman looked up. Her nametag read 'Carrie.' "How can I help you today, sir?" she asked, sounding bored. 

Gus turned up the wattage on his smile. "Carrie, that's a beautiful name," he said. "For a beautiful lady." 

Carrie straightened, taking another assessing look at Gus. "Thanks," she said warily. "Are you a guest?" 

"I sure am," Gus said. "And I've just come here to tell you what a wonderful job you're all doing." 

Shawn resisted the urge to roll his eyes, as Carrie leaned over the counter to talk to Gus. He twisted the other monitor towards him, and leaned down to hit a few keys and bring up the guest list. 

"That's so refreshing," Carrie was saying, her wary tone disappearing. "Usually all I get here are complaints." 

"I hear that," Gus said. "I used to work in customer service. Pharmaceuticals. You can never please anyone." 

Shawn grinned as he noted the name registered to Room 409. Red Greenfly. He closed the page and gently turned the monitor facing the same direction. Carrie threw a glare over at him at the sound for interrupting her conversation, but didn't notice anything amiss. 

Shawn walked over to join them. "Terrance," he said happily. "I'm so glad I found you. Your wife is downstairs trying to find you. I told her to sit down and wait and I'd grab you, you know how hard it is for her to walk." Shawn turned to Carrie. "Nine months already. Triplets. She's big as a house." 

Carrie glared at Gus, before pushing away from the counter. "Is that so?" she asked coolly. "Then I guess you'd better be going." 

"What did you do that for?" Gus hissed as they got back in the elevator. "She wants to kill me now." 

"If you want to end up spending the trip showing Fran Drescher around the town, be my guest," he said. "But I have a case to finish." 

"You found something?" Gus asked in disbelief. "They're actually here?" 

"4th floor, room 409," Shawn told him. 

"So how are we going to play this?" Gus asked. "I say we stay in the hallway and convince them to turn themselves in." 

"Sounds workable," Shawn said. "But how about instead we go into the room, and don't turn them in? Sound good?" 

"That's the complete opposite of my plan," Gus snapped. 

"Yes," Shawn said. "I've found that if I do that with your plans, it makes them sound like my plans. Come on, Gus, we can't turn them in! They'll be arrested." 

"They're criminals," Gus said. "That's what happens to criminals. They get arrested." 

The elevator reached the fourth floor, and Shawn walked out. "Right, but sometimes they don't, and sometimes they're innocent," he said. "Look at you. You're on the run, and you haven't done anything wrong." 

"I did do something wrong," Gus said. "I said yes, I'll be your best friend, Shawn, when I was in the kindergarten." 

"Don't rewrite history, Gus," Shawn said. "You totally begged me to be your best friend." 

"That's not how it happened, Shawn!" Gus yelled. "You wanted to be blood brothers, but I didn't think it was sanitary." 

"Oh, yeah," Shawn said, pausing as he thought. "And then you said, 'we could just be best friends!' So ha!" 

"Whatever, Shawn," Gus said. "The point is that was obviously my first mistake." 

"I don't think it was your first mistake," Shawn said. "You were wearing a Mr. Rogers shirt at the time, and that was passé even then." 

"You scare me sometimes," Gus said. "And I was five years old, my mother was picking out my clothes." 

"I was picking out my own clothes," Shawn said, turning to heard towards room 409. 

"That explains why you spent an entire week dressed as an astronaut," Gus said. 

"And you talk about my memory," Shawn said. 

"I think your wardrobe choices were a little more memorable than mine," Gus said. 

Shawn stopped in front of the door, leaning against it to try and see anything through the peephole. He knocked with his eyes still pressed against it, and the door flew open almost at once. Cyril leaned in the doorway with his arms crossed, looking more resigned than surprised. 

Fred Greenly was lying in the bed behind him, propped up with pillows and his shoulder heavily bandaged. 

"Well, if it isn't Shawn Spenstar," Cyril said.

"And Rily Criner," Shawn said, before leaning past him to wave at Fred. "With his good friend Red Greenfly." 

"What are you doing here, Shawn?" Cyril asked. "Didn't you get my postcard?" 

"Yes," Shawn said. "And I read your secret message requesting my help, so here I am!" 

"The secret message was to stay out of this," Cyril said. 

"Really?" Shawn asked, pushing past him into the room. "I guess I'd better upgrade my decoder ring." 

"Who's this?" Cyril asked, narrowing his eyes at where Gus was trying to become one with the hallway. "Did you call the cops on me?" 

"Does he look like a cop?" Shawn asked. "That's Burton 'Buster' Guster, he's cool, he's on the lam just like us." 

"You're not on the lam, Shawn," Cyril said, while Gus tilted back his head and slid past him to hide behind Shawn. Cyril shut the door. "You really shouldn't have come here." 

"That's what criminals say before they kill you," Gus hissed at Shawn.

"You want to explain them?" Fred asked from the bed. 

"This is Shawn Spencer," Cyril said. "The psychic that got me cleared. And this is, Buster, was it?" 

"And you must be the master of disguise," Shawn said, looking over at Fred. "Little tip. The anagrams? Not really working. Way too easy to spot. I mean Red Greenfly? It sounds like the name of a microbrewery." 

"I haven't been caught yet," Fred said. 

"True, but only because I haven't officially been assigned to the case," Shawn said. "Actually I've been advised more than once to stay away from it." 

"And did you consider staying away from it?" Cyril asked. 

"I did," Shawn said. "Briefly. And maybe I would have, except for one thing." 

"And what's that?" Fred asked. 

"I know that neither of you killed Carter Raynes," he said. 

"You'd be the first," Cyril said. "He was our friend. We wouldn't have hurt him. The shooter came out of nowhere, and before you ask, he was wearing a ski mask. We never saw his face." 

"Of course," Shawn said, closing his eyes, holding one hand out as if for balance. "He fired off a warning shot first, and then he pushed Carter to his knees. Greenly made a move for him when he fired the shot, and took a bullet to the shoulder, but Cyril was already coming at him from the other side, and wrestled the gun from him—" 

"Jesus," Fred said. "Maybe the kid is psychic. Yeah, that's how it happened. Cyril left the shooter on the ground and came to grab me and get us out of there." 

"Do you still have the gun?" Gus asked nervously. "Because I think we need it. For evidence." 

Shawn ignored him, opening his eyes to stare straight at Cyril. "The thing that I'm not clear on is whether or not you had anything to do with the robbery at the FBI evidence locker. Because I know you're not a killer, but unlike the last time we worked together, this time I don't intend to forget that you are a thief." 

"Carter did the job on his own," Cyril said. "It was too risky. I'd never have let him take it on if I'd known what he was planning, and I certainly wouldn't have helped him do it. We had more than enough already. We were meeting to divide up the goods and finally get them fenced." 

Shawn's cell phone started blaring out _Ace of Base_. He looked at the Caller ID in disbelief. "It's Lassie," he said. "He wouldn't have come back that quick, would he?" 

"You'd better answer it, Shawn," Gus said. 

"Hey, hold on, isn't that the cop?" Fred demanded, trying to sit up. 

"Give me a sec," Shawn said, answering the call. "Lassie! Missing me already?" 

"You know how I said don't leave the hotel room?" Lassiter asked. 

"Vaguely," Shawn said. "Why?"

"Because I need you to forget that, grab Guster and come down to the lobby," he said. 

"The lobby is on the second floor," Shawn reminded him.

"Get down to the first floor," Lassiter demanded.

Shawn frowned at the tense tone, before glancing over at Cyril and Fred. It was risky staying here, someone had been bound to notice eventually. "The FBI are here," Shawn said in realization. "Do you already have the place surrounded?" 

"We got a tip that Riner might, and I mean might, be somewhere in the hotel," Lassiter said. "The FBI got a hit on one of Fred Greenly's possible aliases. If he's there we're going to find him, but I want you out of the way. I'm serious."

"Okay, I'll level with you," Shawn said. "Gus and I already went out for hotdogs. So you don't have anything to worry about." 

"Shawn," Gus snapped. 

"And Lassie?" Shawn said. "I just want you to know, I'm sorry, about everything." 

"We'll work it out," Lassiter said gently. "Just as soon as we get Riner in custody and this whole thing squared away, I'll make it up to you, alright?" 

"Oh, I think we'll be even by the end of this," Shawn said. "Be careful." 

Cyril had already grabbed his jacket and was dragging Fred up from the bed. "How much time do we have?" he asked, as Shawn ended the call. 

"They're already in the hotel," he said. "But it doesn't sound like they're pulling out all the stops yet, they're just checking into a lead to see if it pans out." He turned to Fred. "I told you those anagrams would get you into trouble." 

"We'll take that under advisement," Cyril said. "At the moment we have more pressing matters." 

"Right," Shawn said. "We need a getaway driver." 

"No, what we need is to go downstairs and turn ourselves in," Gus snapped. 

"Your friend is right," Cyril said. "I mean, we're not going to do that, obviously, but you two should. I never meant to get you involved in this again, Shawn. You should get out while you can."

"It's too late for that," Shawn said. "The FBI has a media blackout on this. Which means once they have you, you're probably not ever going to get a public trial. They're going to lock you away and throw out the key." 

"That's not your problem," Cyril insisted. "We can handle it." 

"Really?" Shawn said. "How are you going to get out of here?" 

"We're going to go to the roof and scale the fire escapes," Cyril said. "Once we're on the street we'll get on the subway and lay low somewhere outside the city." 

"Your friend can barely stand upright," Gus said, frowning where Fred was swaying in Cyril's grip. 

"You need me," Shawn said. "I have a plan. I know a guy." Shawn dialed his phone and grinned when it picked up. "Hey, it's Shawn. I need you to come around the back of the Holiday Inn on Lafayette. Also, there may be fugitives involved, on the run from The Man. Sweet." He ended the call. "I got us our getaway driver. We just need to take the service elevator down to the back exit." 

"Who do you know in New York that's going to do that?" Gus demanded.

"I have connections," Shawn said, leading the way out of the room. "Let's go." 

Gus reluctantly followed them into the service elevator, staying as far from Cyril and Fred as possible as they dove towards the first floor.

* * * * *

Lassiter knew the moment Shawn ended the call that something was wrong. Halder and Bynes were surprised when he offered to go stand guard out back, but he had a bad feeling in his gut. Shawn was up to something. There wasn't any way Shawn could already have known, was there? Lassiter tried to remember Shawn's eyes the last time they'd talked, and there had been no indication he knew more than he was letting on.

But that had been ten whole minutes ago, and who knew what Shawn had stumbled on since then. 

"God damn it," Lassiter snapped, dialing him again as he went though the hotel kitchen towards the back doors. "Pick up, Shawn." 

Lassiter heard an elevator door sliding open and then, inexplicably, Ace of Base singing Don't Turn Around—so Lassiter turned around. Shawn was just stepping out of the elevator with Guster by his side, looking at the phone with a frown, and behind him stood Cyril Riner and Fred Greenly.

Lassiter didn't know where to direct his anger—Riner, or Shawn. At least for a second he didn't. "Shawn!" he shouted, starting to raise his gun but careful to keep it away from Shawn and Guster. "Get out of the way!" 

Shawn froze, staring at him with huge eyes, and Lassiter could see the gears turning behind them as he considered his options. Behind him, Riner had taken off running already, pulling Greenly with him out of sight into the next wall. 

Shawn turned to watch the fugitives run off, before looking back to Lassiter with a gleam in his eyes and his confidence restored. "You stay here, Lassie, we'll get them!" 

"Shawn! Don't you dare!" Lassiter shouted. Shawn ignored him, grabbing Guster by the wrist to drag him along behind him and out of sight. 

Lassiter took off after them, turning down the hall just in time to see the back door swinging shut. His heart was pounding in his ears as he ran down the hall, slamming through the door out onto the street. He was just in time to see one of Shawn's sneakers lifting up into the front seat of a VW Minibus, before it went screeching off. 

Lassiter jogged after it a moment, memorizing the license plate, before he looked up enough to take in the rest of the van. He came to a stop just as Riner popped up in the back window, giving a little finger wave before disappearing again. 

It looked like the van had escaped from the circus. It was brightly colored and covered in illustrations. It would probably be easy to track down, the question was whether or not he should follow the lead officially or off the books. Shawn had navigated himself through some grey areas before, but he couldn't think of any way to explain this latest escapade away. 

He tried again to dial Shawn, and was surprised when he actually picked up. "Okay, so we didn't go out for hotdogs," Shawn said when he answered. "But this isn't as bad as you think." 

"Shawn, you turn that car around this instant and get your ass back here," Lassiter yelled. 

"I'm just doing my job," Shawn said. "I'll let you know if Gus and I catch the bad guys. But they're slippery." 

"I know you're with Riner!" Lassiter snapped. "Shawn, listen to me, he's dangerous. Even if he's not the killer, he's still dangerous. I want you to stop the car and tell me where you are. I'll come get you." 

"You know how I said I was sorry, for everything?" Shawn asked. "This is what I meant. But I'm right about this, and this is something I need to do. I'm just sorry for putting you in the middle of it. I don't want you to have to lie for me." 

"I don't care about that, I care about you," Lassiter said. "Don't do this to me, Shawn." 

"You know how when we got together, we agreed we'd keep our cases professional?" Shawn asked. 

"You call this professional?" Lassiter demanded. "You just drove off in some circus car." 

"My point is that I have to see this through," Shawn said. "I have everything under control. Don't worry." 

"Shawn, I swear, if you don't—" Lassiter cursed as he heard the dial tone, and barely resisted throwing his cell phone into the wall. 

"Problem?" Agent Halder asked, appearing behind him. Bynes was behind him, watching him curiously. 

"I thought I saw Riner going out the back," Lassiter said. "Lost track of him though, if it was him. Did you find anything?" 

"No, the room was empty," Halder said. "They were definitely there, though. It's too bad this place doesn't have more security cameras. Only the entrance is covered, and I doubt Riner was coming in through the front." 

Lassiter tried to hide his relief. "Was anything left behind that might help?" 

"Nothing," Bynes said. "Though one of them was hurt. The bedspread was covered in blood, and they'd obviously been doing some impromptu medicine with the sewing kit that came standard with the room." 

"He won't go to a hospital," Lassiter told them at once. "That won't help find them. They're too smart to go anywhere they'd be spotted." 

"They weren't too smart to come here," Halder said. "One floor above you. That's a little odd, don't you think?" 

"What are you suggesting?" Lassiter demanded. 

"We know that Shawn Spencer is in New York," Bynes said. "We'd been keeping tabs on him since this started. We want to speak with him, and we're a little concerned that you haven't told us he's here." 

"Shawn came here to see me," Lassiter said. "And my personal life is none of your concern." 

"Personal how?" Bynes asked. 

"He's my boyfriend," Lassiter said. "Has been this last year, which, if you've been keeping tabs on him, you already know. So why don't we just get to the point." 

"Do you suspect that Shawn Spencer is working with Cyril Riner?" Halder asked. "Because the word on the street is that Cyril had a contact back in Santa Barbara holding the diamonds for him, and now here Spencer is. We're thinking it's not coincidence." 

"Shawn isn't a criminal," Lassiter said at once. "And if you know the Riner files as well as you should, then you know that Shawn was the one to recover one of the stolen diamonds and turn it into us. It isn't his fault you couldn't hold on to it." 

"Boys," Bynes said. "There's no need to squabble. Of course we're relieved to hear that Spencer is on our side. In fact, his track record is very impressive, so we would be grateful for his help. You wouldn't happen to know where he is, would you, Detective?" 

"Tell you what," Lassiter said, putting away his phone. "When I see him, you'll be the first to know." 

"That's all we ask," Halder said. "We're hoping he might have an idea where Riner is hiding. He is 'psychic,' isn't that right? That must come in useful." 

"You've seen his solve rate," Lassiter said. 

"It is incredible," Bynes said. "I look forward to meeting him." 

"As do I," Halder said, motioning Bynes to head back inside. "We'll see you back at the office. We're having some techs come back to go over the room, but there's nothing else for us to do here." 

"I'll meet you there," Lassiter said, and pulled his phone back out as soon as they were out of sight. "O'Hara. I need a favor, off the books. I want you to run a check on a plate for me."

* * * * *

There was silence in the van after Shawn hung up with Lassiter, and Shawn forced himself to lighten the mood. He glanced into the mirrors o make sure they weren't being followed, before turning in the seat to smile at the driver. The man was nearing eighty but holding up well. His wrinkles were more from smiles than anything else, and his shoulder length grey hair was pulled into a ponytail at the nape of his neck.

"Sunbeam, that was awesome, man!" Shawn said in admiration. "Lassie's totally going to kill me, but it might be worth it." 

"You always keep things interesting, that's for sure, Shawnie," Sunbeam said, tossing him a grin. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your friends?" 

"Oh, right! Where are my manners? Grandpa George, this is my best friend Foghorn Leghorn. And this is Cyril Riner and Fred Greenly, renowned jewel thieves currently on the run from the police." 

"Thank you for that discreet introduction, Shawn," Cyril said wryly. "As though you haven't gotten me in enough trouble already. Lassiter isn't going to kill you, he will, however, kill me." 

"You got that right," Gus said. "You're a dead man. And what do you mean Grandpa George? You said your grandparents were dead." 

"Not so much dead as reborn," Sunbeam said with a laugh. "Spiritually, I mean. And I prefer to be called Sunbeam these days." 

"Right, I tried to explain that to him, but he just kept saying," Shawn said, sucking in a breath in preparation for a Foghorn Leghorn impression, "'Go, I say go away boy, you bother me!'" 

"Shawn!" Gus snapped. 

"But speaking of names," Shawn said. "Is there any way to link this van back to you? Because I'm pretty sure Lassie got the plates." 

"Forget the plates," Fred grumbled. "Who isn't going to recognize this van?" 

"I don't think you have any right to complain," Shawn said. "Your disguises aren't so great. I've found you out every time." 

"He's got a point," Cyril said with a laugh. 

"Don't you worry, boys," Sunbeam assured him. "You're not the first fugitives I've helped get by the law. You'll be safe at Happy Sunny Daze." 

"Happy Sunny Daze?" Gus repeated. 

"My commune," Sunbeam told them. "Didn't Shawnie tell you anything about us?" 

"No, _Shawnie_ didn't," Gus snapped. 

"My mother's parents are alive and well and living in a hippie commune," Shawn said. "Now everyone is on the same page." 

Sunbeam pulled up to a gated building, punching in a code before driving inside. A garage door start lifting as they approached, and he sped inside and pulled to a stop. The door shut behind them again, and they were hidden from sight. "Wow," Shawn said. "That was like driving into the batcave." 

"This is nothing like a batcave," Gus snapped. 

"And you wonder why I never told you about my grandparents," Shawn said. "You have no imagination. I admit it, I was embarrassed by you. I didn't want them to know I hung out with a corporate drone." 

"I'm not a corporate drone, Shawn!" Gus protested. 

Shawn turned to his grandfather in despair. "He drives a corporate car." 

"It's an Echo!" Gus shouted. 

Sunbeam turned around to face him. "It's never too late to change, son," he said. "You could still have a life, if you get out now." 

"I need to get away from you crazy people, that's what I need," Gus snapped, pushing out of the van. 

"I second that," Fred said, but Cyril just laughed as he helped him out of the van. 

Gus opened Shawn's door and dragged him from the van. "Can we speak for a second?" he asked, pulling him a few feet away. "Just what do you think you're doing?" 

"I've done a lot in the last few days, so I'm going to need you to be more specific," Shawn told him. 

"I don't even know where to start. I think I held up pretty well this last stretch of crazy you've pulled me down, but inside I am having some kind of breakdown. Lassiter saw us, he saw us, Shawn! You need to start listening to him, because he is the only thing standing between us and prison right now." 

"Please, I could talk my way out of it," Shawn said. "I'd just say the spirits told me to do it." 

"That doesn't actually make it less illegal," Gus said. "Although it may help if you're planning an insanity defense." 

"Shawnie! I can't believe you're here!" 

Shawn was pulled into a hug by an older woman with curly white grey hair falling around her shoulders. She was wearing sandles and a long pink skirt, and Gus was guessing she must be his grandmother. "Sue," Shawn said, lighting up in a way Gus had only ever seen him do for his mother. "It's good to see you." 

"George says you've been on the run from the police," she said, framing Shawn's face to frown at him. "You promised me you would stay out of trouble." 

"Cyril and Fred have been doing most of the running," Shawn said. "We're really more accessories." 

"Oh," Sue said. "Well, that's okay, I'm sure we can get you out of that. You boys must be starving, though. Come on up, I've just made fresh cookies."

"Great!" Shawn said. "Cookies sound awesome. Also, if you have a place for me to stash my fugitives, that would be great too." 

Sue rolled her eyes. "You're so much like your grandfather." 

"He is?" Gus asked. "Because I know both of his parents and they're nothing like him. I've been trying to figure out why he's like he is for years." 

Sunbeam had already taken Cyril and Fred upstairs, so Shawn and Gus followed Sue up to her apartment. The hallways were all brightly colored and covered what was more art than graffiti. An old man was sitting in the hall way with a bong, looking pleased with himself. Gus gave him a wide berth. 

"I feel like I've been transported back to the 1960's," he said. 

"You weren't alive in the 1960's," Shawn told him. 

"That's inconsequential," Gus said. "I've seen the Graduate like eighty times." 

"The Graduate had nothing to do with hippies!" Shawn protested. 

"I know about hippies, Shawn," Gus said. 

"We're not actually hippies," Sue said. "We're just free spirits." 

"That guy out there is getting high on a bong," Shawn said. "That's pretty free spirited." 

"You boys stay away from the druggies," Sue said, narrowing her eyes at them. 

"Gus actually is a druggie, but we'll stay away from that guy, don't you worry," Shawn said. 

Sue shot Gus a disapproving look. "You better not push drugs onto my grandson, young man." 

"He doesn't," Shawn assured her. "He just pushes them on other people." 

"I'm not a druggie," Gus protested. "I'm in pharmaceuticals." 

"Big business," Sue tutted. "The worst drug dealers of all. Shawn, I'm surprised at your choice in friends. Fugitives and drug dealers. We're going to have to have a talk about this." 

Gus glared at Shawn as Sue disappeared at the apartment. "Thanks a lot," he snapped. "Now your grandmother hates me." 

"That's only fair, your parents hate me," Shawn said. 

"They don't hate you, Shawn," Gus said. "They just think you're like Eddie Haskel." 

"I'll have you know I'm proud of that comparison," Shawn said. "Eddie Haskel was one of the first true great fictional con artists. He set an example for us all." 

Gus paused, sniffing the air. "Do you smell that?" 

"You know I don't have the Super Sniffer!" Shawn said. "What is it?" 

"Chocalately cookie goodness," Gus said, shoving past him inside. 

Shawn followed him. Sue had set out a tray of chocolate chip cookies, but Cyril, Fred and Sunbeam were nowhere to be seen. "Where is everyone?" he asked. 

"George is getting your friends set up in the apartment across the hall," Sue said. "Now, while your pusher friends enjoys his cookies, I need your help with something in the kitchen." 

"I'm not a pusher," Gus protested weakly, his mouth full of cookie. 

Shawn reluctantly followed Sue into the kitchen, sensing a lecture coming. Sue was always the more levelheaded one in the relationship, and while Shawn could always count on Sunbeam to go along with his plans she was the wild card. 

"Your grandfather might find this sort of thing fun," Sue said sternly. "But I haven't been here so long that my baby hiding fugitives from the law doesn't alarm me." 

"I know what I'm doing," Shawn assured her. "I'll get them cleared, and this will all be forgotten. I've done it a dozen times before." 

"Yes, I've been reading up on your agency," Sue said. "I'm glad to see something good has come of Henry's abuse." 

"You know it wasn't like that," Shawn said quietly. 

"Of course that's what it was like. All well intentioned, I'm sure, but that's hardly the point. Anyway, you should try your act here, I'm sure the residents would be impressed. I only hope you didn't think I'd be so easily fooled by this sudden 'clairvoyance'?" she asked. 

Shawn laughed and threw her a wry grin. "No, I never thought you would be," he said. "But I'm helping people, I hope that counts for something." 

"I think it's brilliant," Sue said. "I'm making a scrap book of all your solved crimes. It's getting pretty long, too. I'd hoped you would have come sooner, though. I worry about you. It's been five years." 

"I call," Shawn said. 

"Yes, you're very good at that Sunday phone call," Sue agreed. "But you never say anything about your life. You hide so much behind your smiles, you always have. I want to know how you are. Really." 

"I'm fine," Shawn said. 

"Because if you weren't fine, I would want to know," Sue continued. "I bet I could fix it. And we'd love to have you here, you know that. That big house is just sitting there all alone." 

"You could live there," Shawn said. "I know you never wanted this so much as him. Don't let him—" 

"Shawnie," she said fondly. "I'm here because I want to be. I want to be with him, and I don't care where. Money never mattered to me." Sue paused for a moment, watching him closely. "I know it never mattered to you, either. That's why we left it to you. It would have torn your parents apart, but I knew it wouldn't change you at all." 

"Sue," Shawn started. 

"You're too sweet, too much of a free spirit, like George," Sue said, smiling a little. "But I wanted to make sure you were taken care of, that you wouldn't have to worry about anything." 

"You could have it all back," he said. "I don't know what to do with it. I'd just give it all away." 

Sue laughed. "Well, that's up to you," she said. "But what about your special someone?" 

"My special what?" Shawn asked. "Oh, you mean Gus? He's just my best friend. It's plutonic. Though I wouldn’t get him started on Pluto, he'll tell you more than you want to know." 

"You know very well that's not who I mean," Sue said. "You're with someone. I can always tell. And it's serious. Who is he?" 

"Lassie," Shawn said. 

"You're dating a fictional dog?" Sue asked wryly. 

"Carlton Lassiter," Shawn corrected, with a faux-british accent. "Is that better?" 

"Somewhat," Sue said. "Is he good to you?" 

"He yells at me a lot," Shawn said. 

"Good, you need someone to do that," Sue said. 

"Hey!" Shawn protested. "You're my grandmother. You're supposed to spoil me." 

"And I do, which is why I need someone else to yell at you," Sue said. "Do you love him?" 

"Yes," Shawn said. "But it's not that easy." 

"Of course it's not. If it was easy I'd worry," Sue said. 

"I think we're too different," Shawn said, leaning against the sink. "Like this, right now, what I'm doing. He hates this. He's gonna kill me. He won't even consider those men might be innocent, he just knows there's a warrant out for them and so wants them brought in. He lives by the law. And I sound like I should be in a Western saying that, but it's true, and he even grew up in a fake Western town, so I guess it makes sense." 

"So he saw you then? With those men?" Sue asked gently. 

"Yeah," Shawn said, running a hand across his face. "Usually I don't like him to know about the crazy stuff I'm doing until it's done. Now I've made him part of this too." 

"And he's part of it because he won't tell them about you?" Sue asked. 

"Right," Shawn agreed. 

"So even though you're kind of sort of breaking that law he loves, he's not going to tell you on anyway?" Sue asked, tilting Shawn's head up so he could meet her eyes. "So maybe he's not as inflexible as you think. Maybe it's you that needs to try and see things from his point of view." 

"You think I should turn them in?" Shawn asked in disbelief. 

"No, I just think you should try and figure out why he's trying so hard to do it himself. Is it just because they're breaking the law? Or is it also partly because you're in danger because of this?" Sue asked. "It sounds like he loves you, darling. Maybe he's not willing to risk your life for anything, and that's the one thing you can't really change about people that love you." 

"I guess I never thought about it like that," Shawn said. 

"And maybe you have, and you're testing him," Sue said. "You forget I know you, Shawnie. I'm guessing that just before all this happened, he wanted to make some sort of commitment, but you're terrified of that, and so you decided to be even more you than you usually are to terrify him right back." 

Shawn laughed. "I must get my psychic powers from you," he said. "He wants us to move in together." 

"And you don't want that?" Sue asked. 

"We're practically living together already," Shawn said. 

"So what's the problem?" she asked. 

"This wouldn't be practically, this would be the real thing," Shawn said. "No breaks or days off, just us, all the time. And I'm not the easiest person to live with, I know that. Even Gus can't stand me for more than twelve hours at a time." 

"This isn't about your little pusher friend," Sue said. "What about you and Carlton?" 

Shawn laughed. "Carlton." 

"Isn't that his name?" she asked. 

"Well, yeah, but I don't call him that," Shawn said. "Occasionally I might call him Carly, but he'll always be Lassie to me." 

"Lassie then," Sue said. "We're talking about him." 

"Lassie can't stand to be with me for five minutes," Shawn said, grinning. "A minute even. We're at each other's throats. But that's kind of the fun of it. He doesn't let me get away with anything, you know? He knows when I'm lying. I can't con him. Well, I can occasionally, but it's hard, and I love a challenge." 

"And you think he doesn't feel the same way?" Sue asked. 

Shawn sighed. "I think one of these times I'm going to go too far and that's going to be the end of it," he said. "And the way this trip is going, I'm thinking this is going to be that time. So maybe you're right, and I am testing him." 

"Just don't set him up to fail," Sue said, kissing him on the side of the head. "Love's not the easiest thing in the world to find." 

"What's going on here?" Sunbeam asked, strolling in with Cyril behind him. 

"Just talking, dear," Sue said. "And you must be the fugitive. Nice to meet you." 

Cyril grinned. "You too, any family of Spencer's, and all that," he said. 

"Quite," Sue said. "Did you get your friend settled in? I'd like to take a look at him. His dressings were bleeding." 

"I took care of it," Cyril said dismissively. 

"Did you," Sue said dryly. "And are you a doctor?" 

"No, but you get familiar with gunshots in my line of work," Cyril said, tossing her a grin. 

"I'm sure," Sue said. "And in mine too." 

"She used to be a trauma surgeon," Shawn said innocently. "So you might want to take her up on the offer." 

"Oh," Cyril said. "Yeah. That would be great." 

"I'll show you where we put him," Sunbeam said, before leading her out. 

"I see you're still charming people that are trying to help you," Shawn said, after they'd gone. 

Cyril laughed. "I was trying not to bother them anymore than I already had," he said. "You don't have to do this, you know. I can find somewhere else for us to go." 

"I'm in this now," Shawn said. "I might as well be all in." 

"Lassiter might arrest you for this," Cyril said. "He wasn't happy." 

"He won't arrest me. Well probably," Shawn said. "You should worry about yourself. What did you mean, go back to the scene of the crime?" 

"The FBI locker," Cyril said. "There's something off about that. Carter was good, but he wasn't that good. He had to have had help, and it stands to reason that the guy that killed him was it. The police were probably right that Carter was killed by a partner, it's just it wasn't us." 

Shawn shook his head. "I'm too involved in this now to talk my way onto that crime scene," he said. "If I head over there, at best I'm going to be locked up in some interrogation room or protective custody." 

Cyril shrugged. "It wasn't you I was asking to check it out," he said. "It was Lassiter." 

"Lassie's not going to help you," Shawn said. "I know that already." 

"He'd help you," Cyril said.

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," Shawn said. "I can't risk it right now, he might take me in, 'for my own good.' We're on our own." 

"Okay, so where should we start?" Cyril asked. 

"You're staying here," Shawn said. "Gus and I can handle this." 

"No offense, Shawn, but this is my life on the line," Cyril protested. 

"Exactly, and if you go out there it's over," Shawn said. "They will find you eventually, but this is the last place they'll look." 

"Lassiter saw the van, he might be able to tie it back here," he said. 

"Lassie wouldn't have told him about the van," Shawn said. 

"How do you know that?" Cyril demanded. 

"Psychic, remember?" Shawn said. "You trusted me before. I need you to trust me again. I'm going to figure this out, to prove it to everyone. I can't do that if I've got a fugitive riding shotgun." 

"Okay, so you go your way then, I'll go mine," Cyril said, flashing a grin. 

"You're going to get in trouble, aren't you?" Shawn asked. 

"No more than you, I'm sure," Cyril said. 

"I think if we compared track records, you'd win for getting into the most trouble," Shawn said. 

"Only if we're talking legal trouble," Cyril said. 

"That's fair," Shawn agreed. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go pry my friend away from the cookies before he goes into a sugar induced coma." 

Gus was on his fourth or fifth cookie when he went back into the living room, so Shawn snatched it from him and put it in his pocket. "Come on, Gus," he said. "We've got to go lay low and regroup." 

"We aren't staying here?" Gus asked. "Is it because your grandmother hates me?" 

"No, but I've got a place for us already," Shawn said. 

"You booked us in a hotel?" Gus asked. 

"No, we're going to stay at a Manhattan Townhouse." Shawn grabbed Gus by the arm to pull him to his feet. 

"Stop lying to get me to go places with you, Shawn," Gus snapped. "You better have a hotel. I'm not staying at some Hostel. I'm attached to my hands and feet." 

"Of course you're attached to them. That's how it works," Shawn protested, as he pulled him into the hall. 

"Are you leaving?" Sue asked, as she came out of the opposite room. "I can make up the guest room." 

"We're going to the house," Shawn said. "I need to try and figure out my next move." 

"For the case?" Sue asked. "Or something else?" 

"For both," Shawn said, grinning a bit. "How's Fred?" 

"He'll live," Sue said. "But I doubt he'll do as I told him. He's already been through all the stuff the previous tenants left and changed his clothes and put on make up or something. He looks about twenty years older." 

"Yeah, he's good at that," Shawn said. 

"I want you to keep me updated, okay, sweetie?" Sue asked. "Do you need a ride?" 

"Can we borrow the van?" Shawn asked. 

Sunbeam tossed him the keys. "Just be careful with it," he said. "And put it in the garage when you get there. Wouldn't want The Man to spot it." 

"Sweet," Shawn said. 

Gus glanced at Shawn when they walked away. "You know I'm driving that van, right?" he asked. "You know I've always wanted to drive a minibus." 

"You don't know where we're going," Shawn protested. 

Gus snatched the keys from him. "You can tell me where to turn, I'm driving," he said.

* * * * *

"Okay, we're here," Shawn said. "Thank god. Remind me never to let you drive anything bigger than the Echo again."

"This can't be right," Gus said, as Shawn leaned over him to punch a code into the gate. The gate opened up into a cobblestone driveway, and he cautiously drove through it.

"The garage is to the right," Shawn said. "Hold on, I'll get it open." 

Shawn disappeared around the side of the house, and a few minutes later the garage started to open and Shawn waved him in, closing it behind him. "Dude, we totally left our bags at the Holiday Inn," Shawn said. "It's a good thing I have some spare stuff here, and honestly you're probably better off with all your comic book t-shirts out of your reach." 

"What is this place, Shawn?" Gus demanded, pushing by him to go inside. The house was full of expensive looking antiques. There were lights along the wall that lit up photos in handcrafted frames. He frowned as he realized it was Shawn, going from baby-sized to full-grown. "Is this your grandparents house?" 

"Kind of," Shawn said. "Also, it's a little bit mine." 

"Yours," Gus said. "In what way?" 

"I don't know, the legal way?" Shawn said. "It's my name on all the papers and stuff."

"You own a house?" Gus asked. "You own a house and you never told me?"

"I forgot," Shawn said. 

"You forgot you owned a townhouse in Manhattan?" Gus asked incredulously. "There's something seriously wrong with you." 

"But it doesn't do anything," Shawn said. "It just sits here." 

"It's a house," Gus said. 

"Exactly my point," Shawn said. 

"It's worth like a million dollars," Gus said, moving out into an ornately decorated living room. "At least, Shawn." 

"I could never sell it," Shawn said in disbelief. "Eventually my grandparents will tire of the hippie lifestyle and move back to become Roman Scientists or something." 

"Christian Scientists," Gus corrected. 

"What do their religious views have to do with anything?" Shawn demanded. "The point is they signed the house over to me in a fit of hippie madness. I'm just holding onto it until they want it back. Sunbeam, who went by George at the time, used to be a high price criminal lawyer, and my Grandma Sue was the head of surgery at Mount Sinai Hospital. Didn't I ever tell you they were millionaires?"

"I think I would have remembered that, Shawn," Gus snapped. "What you told me was that they were dead." 

"Oh, right," Shawn said. "But you knew about them before, because I used to share all the awesome things they gave me on my trips with you! Remember when I was going to get a boat? Not that it happened, but they did give me everything else. Anyway, I didn't mean dead in the sense of dead, I thought you understood that." 

"You said you gave the eulogy at their funeral and everyone cried," Gus snapped. 

"You should have known that wasn't true!" Shawn said. "If I was going to give a eulogy it would be funny. You should hear the jokes I've written for yours. I have one bit, it starts with—and what is with the pastels? I thought I'd do the whole thing in the voice of Jerry Seinfield, what do you think?" 

"I think you're not doing the eulogy at my funeral," Gus snapped. "Shawn, this place is amazing. Is that a Monet?" 

"Don't be ridiculous," Shawn said. "It's just a Manet or something." 

"Oh my god," Gus said. "You sound like a rich person. It's like I don't know you at all." 

"Just because I have an insanely large trust fund an a million dollar house doesn't mean I'm not the same person!" Shawn protested. 

"You have a trust fund?" Gus demanded.

"Sure," Shawn said. "But it's not like I can use it. I don't have access until I'm thirty." 

"Shawn, you're thirty-one," Gus said. 

"That can't possibly be true," Shawn said. 

"You're going to be thirty-two in a couple of months," Gus snapped. "We celebrated. You said it was the best birthday ever." 

"Huh," Shawn said. "I don't remember it, so I say I'm still twenty-nine." 

"I can't believe you're a millionaire. I've been supporting you for years, and you're a trust fund baby?" Gus demanded. 

"I think it's like barely a million dollars. We're more like hundred-thousandaires honestly. And it's my grandparents that were rich, not my parents, so it's totally different," Shawn said. 

"But they gave it all to you," Gus snapped. 

"Yes," Shawn said. "But does that mean it's mine?" 

"Yes, Shawn, that's exactly what it means," Gus said. "I want a check. Right now. For $8,765.49 dollars." 

"$8,765.49?" Shawn said. 

"Yes," Gus said primly. "That's how much money I've spent on you since we met in first grade. I was glad to do it." 

"Clearly, which is why you've kept a ledger," Shawn said. 

"I was glad to do it when I thought you'd be out on the streets without me!" Gus snapped. 

"But you like thinking that!" Shawn said. "You enjoy taking care of me. There's no reason to change our relationship now."

"Does your father know?" Gus asked. 

"My mother made me promise not to tell him," Shawn said. "So I never did." 

"And Lassiter?" Gus asked. "Does he know?" 

"Lassiter thinks that the jar of pennies in my living room is the sum total of my estate," Shawn said. 

"I can't believe this," Gus said. 

"I meant that it doesn't change anything," Shawn said. "I never planned to use it. Money can't buy happiness, Gus." 

"Forget that," Gus snapped. "I want a DeLorean." 

"You want what?" Shawn asked. "Seriously, that's what you're going to ask for? Of everything in the world?" 

"I've wanted a DeLorean my entire life," Gus said. 

" _Back To The Future_ came out in 1985, you were six," Shawn protested. 

"I want a DeLorean, Shawn!" Gus shouted. 

"Okay, okay," Shawn said, dropping down at an old styled desk and pulling out a checkbook. "Should $40,000 cover it?" 

"What?" Gus asked, staring at him in disbelief. "Are you serious? You would actually buy me a DeLorean?"

"Only if you'll stop yelling at me," Shawn said. 

"I can't accept that," Gus said. "Are you crazy? You can't just give someone $40,000 dollars! What is wrong with you?" 

"You asked me to!" Shawn protested. 

"Give me that," Gus said, ripping up the check. "You are not responsible enough to have access to this kind of money. Consider me your new money manager. Everything now goes through me." 

"I haven't touched it in twenty years," Shawn said. "I think I can be trusted with it." 

"That was when you thought you were twenty-nine," Gus said. "And you not knowing your own age is another reason you shouldn't be trusted with this." 

"I'm still not sure I believe you that I'm thirty," Shawn said. 

"You're not," Gus said. "You're thirty-one." 

There was a loud creaking from above their heads and Gus froze. "Shawn, I think you own a haunted mansion." 

"It's a townhouse, not a mansion, and do we really need to go through this again?" Shawn asked. "There's no such thing as ghosts. Obviously there's just someone creeping around upstairs." 

Shawn paused, thinking over his words, and shared a look with Gus, before both of them took off running, pushing at each other to get in through the kitchen door. Shawn grabbed a frying pan and Gus picked up a spatula. 

"A spatula, seriously?" Shawn asked. "Are you going to butter the guy to death?" 

Gus twisted the implement in his hands so the end was poking out. "I'm gonna get him right in the eyes!" he said. 

"Okay, that's almost vaguely scary," Shawn said. "But you're never going to get close enough for that. It's impractical. I would have gone with one of the giant steak knifes about two inches to the left of where that spatula was sitting, but maybe that's just me." 

Shawn's rant was cut short as they heard someone coming down the stairs. He glanced at the large cupboard at the side of the kitchen, before pulling it open. He turned to Gus. "Should we just hide?" he stage-whispered. 

Gus tossed the spatula and pushed past him into the cupboard. Shawn followed him, pulling it shut behind them. They could see a shadow approaching through the thin slats of the door, and Shawn tilted his head, squinting through them as he tried to appraise the burglar. 

Gus let out some kind of strange squeak as the door to the pantry twisted, and pushed against it in a panic, his momentum tossing Shawn straight at the burglar as Gus went flying straight into the next room. Shawn recognized the arms that had caught him at once, as well as the fabric of the jacket, and he looked up sheepishly to see Lassiter frowning down at him. 

"You're going to kill me, Spencer," Lassiter snapped, pushing Shawn back into the wall and kissing him passionately, threading the fingers of his right hand through his hair. "You're in so much trouble." 

"That's what you keep me around for, though, right?" Shawn asked, breathless from the kiss. 

Lassiter pressed his forehead against the wall beside Shawn's head, his breath tickling his neck. "I don't even know what to say," he said. "If you were anyone else you'd be in handcuffs right now. How many times did I tell you to stay the hell away from Riner?"

"It wasn't my fault he was staying at the same hotel," Shawn protested. 

"Where is he, Shawn?" Lassiter demanded, pulling back to look him in the eye. 

"I couldn't catch him," Shawn said. "I don't know where he is." 

"You're lying," Lassiter said. "Do you think I don't know when you're lying? I've always known." 

"He's hiding out in a hippie commune," Shawn told him. "Wanted a simpler life." 

"This isn't funny, Shawn," Lassiter snapped. 

"It wasn't meant to be funny," Shawn said. "If I was going to play it for humor I would have said he'd taken up residence in a nudist colony or joined a cult. Lots of people live in hippie communes, though. My grandparents, for instance." 

"You need to listen to me very carefully," Lassiter snapped. "I know you have him, and if you're helping a fugitive and they find out about it, I can't protect you. Do you understand me? You can't do this, Shawn. Forget that he's dangerous, you could go to jail." 

"You say that like you think I might get caught," Shawn said. 

"Okay, then think about it this way," Lassiter snapped. "What if you're wrong about him, and someone gets hurt because of it? Are you prepared to live with that?" 

"I'm not wrong about him," Shawn said. "And if I turn him in, someone's definitely going to get hurt." 

"You're making me an accessory," Lassiter snapped. 

"I admit to nothing," Shawn said. "You've got plausible deniability. Just stop asking me questions and I won't have to lie." 

"Where's Guster?" Lassiter demanded, stepping back, in search of an easier target. 

"Probably back in Santa Barbara by now," Shawn said. "He's like a Gazelle." 

Lassiter spotted Gus right outside the door, attempting to press himself through a wall. "You're supposed to be the reasonable one, Guster," he snapped, moving towards the weaker link. "Where is he?" 

"Where is who?" Gus asked. 

"You know damn well," Lassiter yelled.

"I've never met anyone named Damn Well in my entire life," Gus said. "You must have me confused with someone else." 

"Cyril Riner," Lassiter said. 

"No, I'm Gus," said Gus. 

"Where is Cyril Riner?" Lassiter said tersely, carefully pronouncing each word.

Gus stepped back. "Shawn already told you that," he said. 

Lassiter narrowed his eyes. Guster wasn't anywhere near as good of a liar as Shawn, so he was pretty sure he would know if that was a lie, and he didn't think it was. Which meant that something Shawn had said had been the truth. He went back through Shawn's comments—a hippie commune? His grandparents? 

It was a long shot, but it was the only shot he had. 

"Where's the bedroom?" Lassiter demanded. 

"I really don't think this is the time for that," Shawn said. "And Gus is standing right there." 

"Guster too," Lassiter said. 

Shawn paused. "I really hope we're in the middle of some sort of misunderstanding," he said. "Because the alternative is too creepy to contemplate." 

"You've got that right," Gus agreed. 

Lassiter grabbed Shawn and pushed him into the hall, pulling out his handcuffs as he gave him a shove towards one of the beds. 

"What are you doing?" Shawn demanded.

Lassiter snapped one of his cuffs around Shawn's left wrist, before pulling it through the headboard and snapping the other around Guster's left, who had followed them out of morbid curiosity.

"I am going to go bring him in and end this," Lassiter said. "You two are staying here until I get back. Give me your phones." 

Lassiter didn't wait for Shawn to reach for his, just dragged his forward and tugged the phone out of his pocket before holding out his hand for Guster's. Gus handed it to him at once. 

"Don't go anywhere," Lassiter snapped. "I'll be back as soon as I can." 

Shawn watched in disbelief as Lassiter turned on his heel and stormed from the room. He tugged at the cuff and pulled himself as far as he could from the bed. 

"I hope you know you've just earned yourself months of couple's therapy!" he shouted after Lassiter. "This isn't normal boyfriend behavior!"


End file.
